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GREAT  PUSH 

Patrick  MacGill 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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THE  GREAT  PUSH 


PATRICK      MACGILL 


THE 

GREAT  PUSH 

AN  EPISODE  OF  THE  GREAT  WAR 

BY 

PATRICK  MacGILL 

AUTHOR   OF 

THE  RED  HORIZON,  THE  RAT-PIT, 
CHILDREN  OF  THE  DEAD  END,  Etc. 


n;ew    YORK 
GROSSET  &  DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1916, 
By  Geoegb  H.  Dorah  Company 


PRINTED  IN  THB  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CH 


TO 

MARGARET 

If  we  forget  the  Fairies, 
And  tread  upon  their  rings, 

God  will  perchance  forget  us, 
And  think  of  other  things. 

When  we  forget  you,  Fairies, 
Who  guard  our  spirits'  light: 

God  will  forget  the  morrow, 
And  Day  forget  the  Night. 


1562960 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  justice  of  the  cause  which  endeav- 
ours to  achieve  its  object  by  the  murder- 
ing and  maiming  of  mankind  is  apt  to 
be  doubted  by  a  man  who  has  come  through  a 
bayonet  charge.  The  dead  lying  on  the  fields 
seem  to  ask,  "Why  has  this  been  done  to  us? 
Why  have  you  done  it,  brothers  ?  What  purpose 
has  it  served?"  The  battleline  is  a  secret  world, 
a  world  of  curses.  The  guilty  secrecy  of  war  is 
shrouded  in  lies,  and  shielded  by  bloodstained 
swords;  to  know  it  you  must  be  one  of  those 
who  wage  it,  a  party  to  dark  and  mysterious 
orgies  of  carnage.  War  is  the  purge  of  repleted 
kingdoms,  needing  a  close  place  for  its  opera- 
tions. 

I  have  tried  in  this  book  to  give,  as  far  as  I 
am  allowed,  an  account  of  an  attack  in  which  I 
took  part.  Practically  the  whole  book  was  writ- 
ten in  the  scene  of  action,  and  the  chapter  dealing 
with  our  night  at  Les  Brebis,  prior  to  the  Big 
Push,  was  written  in  the  trench  between  midnight 

7 


8  Introduction 

and  dawn  of  September  25th;  the  concluding 
chapter  in  the  hospital  at  Versailles  two  days 
after  I  had  been  wounded  at  Loos. 

Patrick  MacGii,!,. 


CONTENTS 

Introduction vii 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  In  the  Advance  Trenches 13 

II.  Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines 26 

III.  Preparations  for  Loos 45 

IV.  Before  the  Charge 58 

V.  Over  the  Top 76 

VI.  Across  the  Open 83 

VII.  Germans  at  Loos 100 

VIII.  How  My  Comrades  Fared 11 1 

IX.  At  Loos 118 

X.  A  Night  in  Loos 141 

XI.  Loos 155 

XII.  Retreat 169 

XIII.  A  Prisoner  of  War 187 

XIV.  The  Chaplain 201 

XV.  A  Lover  at  Loos 210 

XVI.  The  Ration  Party 223 

XVII.  Michaelmas  Eve 232 

XVIII.  Back  at  Loos 245 

XIX.  Wounded 260 

XX.  For  Blighty 269 


THE  GREAT  PUSH 


THE  GREAT  PUSH 

CHAPTER  I 

IN  THE  ADVANCE  TRENCHE9 

Now  when  we  take  the  cobbled  road 

We  often  took  before, 
Our  thoughts  are  with  the  hearty  lads 

Who  tread  that  way  no  more. 

Oh !  boys  upon  the  level  fields, 

If  you  could  call  to  mind 
The  wine  of  Cafe  Pierre  le  Blanc 

You  wouldn't  stay  behind. 

But  when  we  leave  the  trench  at  night, 

And  stagger  neath  our  load, 
Grey,  silent  ghosts  as  light  as  air 

Come  with  us  down  the  road. 

And  when  we  sit  us  down  to  drink 

You  sit  beside  us  too, 
And  drink  at  Cafe  Pierre  le  Blanc 

As  once  you  used  to  do. 

THE  Company  marched  from  the  village 
of  Les  Brebis  at  nightfall;  the  moon, 
waning  a  little  at  one  of  its  corners, 
shone  brightly  amidst  the  stars  in  the  east,  and 

under  it,  behind  the  German  lines,  a  burning  mine 

13 


14  The  Great  Push 

threw  a  flame,  salmon  pink  and  wreathed  in 
smoke,  into  the  air.  Our  Company  was  sadly- 
thinned  now,  it  had  cast  off  many — so  many  of 
its  men  at  Cuinchy,  Givenchy,  and  Vermelles.  At 
each  of  these  places  there  are  graves  of  the 
London  Irish  boys  who  have  been  killed  in  action. 

We  marched  through  a  world  of  slag  heaps 
and  chimney  stacks,  the  moonlight  flowing  down 
the  sides  of  the  former  like  mist,  the  smoke  stood 
up  from  the  latter  straight  as  the  chimneys  them- 
selves. The  whirr  of  machinery  in  the  mine 
could  be  heard,  and  the  creaking  wagon  wheels 
on  an  adjoining  railway  spoke  out  in  a  low, 
monotonous  clank  the  half  strangled  message  of 
labour. 

Our  way  lay  up  the  hill,  at  the  top  we  came 
into  full  view  of  the  night  of  battle,  the  bursting 
shells  up  by  Souchez,  the  flash  of  rifles  by  the 
village  of  Vermelles,  the  long  white  searchlights 
near  Lens,  and  the  star-shells,  red,  green  and 
electric-white,  rioting  in  a  splendid  blaze  of  colour 
over  the  decay,  death  and  pity  of  the  firing  line. 
,We  could  hear  the  dull  thud  of  shells  bursting  in 
the  fields  and  the  sharp  explosion  they  made 
amidst  the  masonry  of  deserted  homes;  you  feel 


In  the  Advance  Trenches         15 

glad  that  the  homes  are  deserted,  and  you  hope 
that  if  any  soldiers  are  billeted  there  they  are 
in  the  safe  protection  of  the  cellars. 

The  road  by  which  we  marched  was  lined  witK 
houses  all  in  various  stages  of  collapse,  some  with 
merely  a  few  tiles  shot  out  of  the  roofs,  others 
levelled  to  the  ground.  Some  of  the  buildings 
were  still  peopled;  at  one  home  a  woman  was 
putting  up  the  shutters  and  we  could  see  some 
children  drinking  coffee  from  little  tin  mugs  uh 
side  near  the  door;  the  garret  of  the  house  was 
blown  in,  the  rafters  stuck  up  over  the  tiles  like 
long,  accusing  fingers,  charging  all  who  passed 
by  with  the  mischief  which  had  happened.  The 
cats  were  crooning  love  songs  on  the  roofs,  and 
stray  dogs  slunk  from  the  roadway  as  we  ap- 
proached. In  the  villages,  with  the  natives  gone 
and  the  laughter  dead,  there  are  always  to  be 
found  stray  dogs  and  love-making  cats.  The  cats 
raise  their  primordial,  instinctive  yowl  in  villages 
raked  with  artillery  fire,  and  poor  lone  dogs 
often  cry  at  night  to  the  moon,  and  their  plaint  is 
full  of  longing. 

We  marched  down  the  reserve  slope  of  the 
hill  in  silence.    At  the  end  of  the  road  was  the 


i6  The  Great  PusK 

village;  our  firing  trench  fringed  the  outer  row 
of  houses.  Two  months  before  an  impudent 
red  chimney  stack  stood  high  in  air  here;  but 
humbled  now,  it  had  fallen  upon  itself,  and  its 
own  bricks  lay  still  as  sandbags  at  its  base,  a  for- 
gotten ghost  with  blurred  outlines,  it  brooded,  a 
stricken  giant. 

The  long  road  down  the  hill  was  a  tedious,  de- 
ceptive way ;  it  took  a  deal  of  marching  to  make 
the  village.  Bill  Teake  growled.  "One  would 
think  the  place  was  tied  to  a  string,"  he  grumbled, 
"and  some  one  pullin'  it  away!" 

We  were  going  to  dig  a  sap  out  from  the 
front  trench  towards  the  German  line;  we  drew 
our  spades  and  shovels  for  the  work  from  the 
Engineers'  store  at  the  rear  and  made  our  way 
into  the  labyrinth  of  trenches.  Men  were  at 
their  posts  on  the  fire  positions,  their  Balaclava 
helmets  resting  on  their  ears,  their  bayonets 
gleaming  bright  in  the  moonshine,  their  hands 
close  to  their  rifle  barrels.  Sleepers  lay  stretched 
out  on  the  banquette  with  their  overcoats  over 
their  heads  and  bodies.  Out  on  the  front  the 
Engineers  had  already  taped  out  the  night's 
work;  our  battalion  had  to  dig  some  two  hundred 


In  the  Advance  Trenches         17 

and  fifty  yards  of  trench  3  ft.  wide  and  6  ft.  deep 
before  dawn,  and  the  work  had  to  be  performed 
with  all  possible  dispatch.  Rumour  spoke  of 
thrilling  days  ahead;  and  men  spoke  of  a  big 
push  which  was  shortly  to  take  place.  Between 
the  lines  there  are  no  slackers;  the  safety  of  a 
man  so  often  depends  upon  the  dexterous  han- 
dling of  his  spade;  the  deeper  a  man  digs,  the 
better  is  his  shelter  from  bullet  and  bomb;  the 
spade  is  the  key  to  safety. 

The  men  set  to  work  eagerly,  one  picked  up 
the  earth  with  a  spade  and  a  mate  shovelled  the 
loose  stuff  out  over  the  meadow.  The  grass,  very 
long  now  and  tapering  tall  as  the  props  that  held 
the  web  of  wire  entanglements  in  air,  shook  gen- 
tly backwards  and  forwards  as  the  slight  breezes 
caught  it.  The  night  was  wonderfully  calm  and 
peaceful;  it  seemed  as  if  heaven  and  earth  held 
no  threat  for  the  men  who  delved  in  the  alleys 
of  war. 

Out  ahead  lay  the  German  trenches.  I  could 
"discern  their  line  of  sandbags  winding  over  the 
meadows  and  losing  itself  for  a  moment  when 
it  disappeared  behind  the  ruins  of  a  farm-house 
«^-3  favourite  resort  of  the  enemy  snipers,  until 


i8  The  Great  Push 

our  artillery  blew  the  place  to  atoms.  Silent  and 
full  of  mystery  as  it  lay  there  in  the  moonlight, 
the  place  had  a  strange  fascination  for  me.  How 
interesting  it  would  be  to  go  out  there  beyond 
our  most  advanced  outpost  and  have  a  peep  at 
the  place  all  by  myself.  Being  a  stretcher-bearer 
there  was  no  necessity  for  me  to  dig;  my  work 
began  when  my  mates  ceased  their  labours  and 
fell  wounded. 

Out  in  front  of  me  lay  a  line  of  barbed  wire 
entanglements. 

"Our  wire?"  I  asked  the  Engineer. 

"No — the  Germans',''  he  answered. 

I  noticed  a  path  through  it,  and  I  took  my 
way  to  the  other  side.  Behind  me  I  could  hear 
the  thud  of  picks  and  the  sharp,  rasping  sound  of 
shovels  digging  into  the  earth,  and  now  and  again 
the  whispered  words  of  command  passing  from 
lip  to  lip.  The  long  grass  impeded  my  move- 
ments, tripping  me  as  I  walked,  and  lurking  shell- 
holes  caught  me  twice  by  the  foot  and  flung  me 
to  the  ground.  Twenty  yards  out  from  the  wire 
I  noticed  in  front  of  me  something  moving  on 
the  ground,  wiggling,  as  I  thought,  towards  the 
enemy's  line.    I  threw  myself  flat  and  watched 


In  the  Advance  Trenches         19 

There  was  no  mistaking  it  now;  it  was  a  man, 
belly  flat  on  the  ground,  moving  off  from  our 
lines.  Being  a  non-combatant  I  had  no  rifle,  no 
weapon  to  defend  myself  with  if  attacked.  I 
wriggled  back  a  few  yards,  then  got  to  my  feet, 
recrossed  the  line  of  wires  and  found  a  com- 
pany-sergeant-major speaking  to  an  officer. 

"There's  somebody  out  there  lying  on  the 
ground,"  I  said.  "A  man  moving  off  towards 
the  German  trenches." 

The  three  of  us  went  off  together  and  ap- 
proached the  figure  on  the  ground,  which  had 
hardly  changed  its  position  since  I  last  saw  it. 
It  was  dressed  in  khaki,  the  dark  barrel  of  a  rifle 
stretched  out  in  front.  I  saw  stripes  on  a  khaki 
sleeve.  .  .  . 

"One  of  a  covering-party?"  asked  the  sergeant- 
major. 

"That's  right,"  came  the  answer  from  the 
grass,  and  a  white  face  looked  up  at  us. 

"Quiet?"  asked  the  S.-M. 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  the  voice  from  the 
ground.  "It's  cold  lying  here,  though.  We've 
been  out  for  four  hours." 

"I  did  not  think  that  the  covering-party  was 


20  The  Great  Push 

so  far  out,"  said  the  officer,  and  the  two  men 
returned  to  their  company. 

I  sat  in  the  long  grass  with  the  watcher;  he 
was  the  sergeant  in  command  of  the  covering 
party. 

"Are  your  party  out  digging?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  out  behind  us,"  I  answered.  "Is  the 
covering-party  a  large  one?" 

■"About  fifty  of  us,"  said  the  sergeant. 
"They've  all  got  orders  to  shoot  on  sight  when 
they  see  anything  suspicious.  Do  you  hear  the 
Germans  at  work  out  there?" 

I  listened;  from  the  right  front  came  the  sound 
of  hammering. 

"They're  putting  up  barbed  wire  entangle- 
ments and  digging  a  sap,"  said  the  sergeant.; 
"Both  sides  are  working  and  none  are  fighting. 
I  must  have  another  smoke,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"But  it's  dangerous  to  strike  a  light  here,"  I' 
said. 

"Not  in  this  way,"  said  the  sergeant,  drawing 
a  cigarette  and  a  patent  flint  tinder-lighter  from 
his  pocket.  Over  a  hole  newly  dug  in  the  earth, 
as  if  with  a  bayonet,  the  sergeant  leant,  lit  the 


"1 


(f 


In  the  Advance  Trenches         21 

cigarette  in  its  little  dug-out,  hiding  the  glow 
with  his  hand. 

'Do  you  smoke  ?"  he  asked. 
'Yes,  I  smoke,"  and  the  man  gave  me  a  ciga- 
rette. 

It  was  so  very  quiet  lying  there.  The  grasses 
nodded  together,  whispering  to  one  another.  To 
speak  of  the  grasses  whispering  during  the  day 
is  merely  a  sweet  idea ;  but  God !  they  do  whisper 
at  night.  The  ancients  called  the  winds  the  Un- 
seen Multitude;  the  grasses  are  long,  tapering 
fingers  laid  on  the  lips  of  the  winds.  "Hush !"  the 
night  whispers.  "Hush!"  breathes  the  world. 
The  grasses  touch  your  ears,  saying  sleepily, 
"Hush !  be  quiet !" 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  I  ventured  to  go 
nearer  the  German  lines.  The  sergeant  told  me 
to  be  careful  and  not  to  go  too  close  to  the 
enemy's  trenches  or  working  parties.  "And  mind 
your  own  covering-party  when  you're  coming  in," 
said  the  sergeant.  "They  may  slip  you  a  bullet 
or  two  if  you're  unlucky." 

Absurd  silvery  shadows  chased  one  another 
up  and  down  the  entanglement  props.  In  front, 
behind  the  German  lines,  I  could  hear  sounds  of 


22  The  Great  Push 

railway  wagons  being  shunted,  and  the  clank  of 
rails  being  unloaded.  The  enemy's  transports 
were  busy;  they  clattered  along  the  roads,  and 
now  and  again  the  neighing  of  horses  came  to 
my  ears.  On  my  right  a  working  party  was  out; 
the  clank  of  hammers  filled  the  air.  The  Ger- 
mans were  strengthening  their  wire  entangle- 
ments; the  barbs  stuck  out,  I  could  see  them  in 
front  of  me,  waiting  to  rip  our  men  if  ever  we 
dared  to  charge.  I  had  a  feeling  of  horror  fori 
a  moment.  Then,  having  one  more  look  round, 
I  went  back,  got  through  the  line  of  outposts,  and 
came  up  to  our  working  party,  which  was  deep 
in  the  earth  already.  Shovels  and  picks  were 
rising  and  falling,  and  long  lines  of  black  clay 
bulked  up  on  either  side  of  the  trench. 

I  took  off  my  coat,  got  hold  of  a  mate's  idle 
shovel,  and  began  to  work. 

"That  my  shovel?"  said  Bill  Teake.  ' 

"Yes,  I'm  going  to  do  a  little,"  I  answered. 
"It  would  never  do  much  lying  on  the  slope." 

"I  suppose  it  wouldn't,"  he  answered.     "Will 
you  keep  it  goin'  for  a  spell?" 

I'll   do  a   little   bit   with   it,"    I   answered. 


«T>1 


In  the  Advance  Trenches         23 

[" You've  got  to  go  to  the  back  of  the  trenches 
if  you're  wanting  to  smoke." 

"That's  where  I'm  goin',"  Bill  replied.  "  'Ave 
yer  got  any  matches?" 

I  handed  him  a  box  and  bent  to  my  work.  It 
was  quite  easy  to  make  headway;  the  clay  was 
crisp  and  brittle,  and  the  pick  went  in  easily,  mak- 
ing very  little  sound.  M'Crone,  one  of  our  sec- 
tion, was  working  three  paces  ahead,  shattering  a 
square  foot  of  earth  at  every  blow  of  his  instru- 
ment. 

"It's  very  quiet  here,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  they 
won't  fire  on  us,  having  their  own  party  out.  By 
Jove,  I'm  sweating  at  this." 

"When  does  the  shift  come  to  an  end?"  I 
asked. 

"At  dawn,"  came  the  reply.  He  rubbed  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow  as  he  spoke.  "The 
nights  are  growing  longer,"  he  said,  "and  it  will 
soon  be  winter  again.     It  will  be  cold  then." 

As  he  spoke  we  heard  the  sound  of  rifle  firing 
out  by  the  German  wires.  Half  a  dozen  shots 
were  fired,  then  followed  a  long  moment  of  silent 
suspense. 


24  The  Great  PusK 

"There's  something  doing,"  said  Pryor,  lean- 
ing on  his  pick.    "I  wonder  what  it  is." 

Five  minutes  afterwards  a  sergeant  and  two 
men  came  in  from  listening  patrol  and  reported 
to  our  officer. 

"We've  just  encountered  a  strong  German 
patrol  between  the  lines,"  said  the  sergeant.  "We 
exchanged  shots  with  them  and  then  withdrew. 
We  have  no  casualties,  but  the  Germans  have  one 
man  out  of  action,  shot  through  the  stomach." 

"How  do  you  know  it  went  through  his 
stomach?"  asked  the  officer. 

"In  this  way,"  said  the  sergeant.  "When  we 
fired  one  of  the  Germans  (we  were  quite  close  to 
them)  put  his  hands  across  his  stomach  and  fell 
to  the  ground  yellin'  'Mein  Gutt !    Mein  Gutt !'  " 

"So  it  did  get  'im  in  the  guts  then,"  said  Bill 
Teake,  when  he  heard  of  the  incident. 

"You  fool!"  exclaimed  Pryor.  "It  was  'My 
God'  that  the  German  said." 

"But  Pat  'as  just  told  me  that  the  German  said 
'Mine  Gut/  "  Bill  protested. 

"Well  'Mein  Gott'  (the  Germans  pronounce 
'Gott'  like  'Gutt'  on  a  dark  night)  is  the  same  as 
'My  God,'  "  said  Pryor. 


In  the  Advance  Trenches         25 

i 

"Well,  any'ow,  that's  just  wot  the  Allymongs 
would  say,"  Bill  muttered.  "It's  just  like  them 
to  call  God  Almighty  nick  names." 

When  dawn  showed  pale  yellow  in  a  cold  sky, 
and  stars  were  fading  in  the  west,  we  packed  up 
and  took  our  way  out  and  marched  back  to 
Nouex-les-Mines,  there  to  rest  for  a  day  or  two. 


CHAPTER  II 

OUT  FROM  NOUEX-LES-MINES 

Every  soldier  to  his  trade — 
Trigger  sure  and  bayonet  keen — 
But  we  go  forth  to  use  a  spade 
Marching  out  from  Nouex-les-Mines. 

AS  I  was  sitting  in  the  Cafe  Pierre  le  Blanc 
helping  Bill  Teake,  my  Cockney  mate, 
to  finish  a  bottle  of  vin  rouge,  a  snub- 
nosed  soldier  with  thin  lips  who  sat  at  a  table 
opposite  leant  towards  me  and  asked : 

"Are  you  MacGill,  the  feller  that  writes?" 
"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"Thought  I  twigged  yer  from  the  photo  of 
yer  phiz  in  the  papers,"  said  the  man  with  the 
snub  nose,  as  he  turned  to  his  mates  who  were 
illustrating  a  previous  fight  in  lines  of  beer  rep- 
resenting trenches  on  the  table. 

"See!"  he  said  to  them,  "I  knew  'im  the  mo- 
ment I  clapped  my  eyes  on  'im." 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  one  of  the  men,  a  ginger- 
headed  fellow,  who  had  his  trigger  finger  deep 

26 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        27 

in  beer,  made  answer.  Then  the  dripping  ringer 
rose  slowly  and  was  placed  carefully  on  the  table. 

"This,"  said  Carrots,  "is  Richebourg,  this  drop 
of  beer  is  the  German  trench,  and  these  are  our 
lines.  Our  regiment  crossed  at  this  point  and 
made  for  this  one,  but  somehow  or  another  we 
missed  our  objective.  Just  another  drop  of  beer 
and  I'll  show  you  where  we  got  to;  it  was — 
Blimey !  where's  that  bloomin'  beer  ?  'Oo  the  'ell ! 
Oh!  it's  Gilhooley!" 

I  had  never  seen  Gilhooley  before,  but  I  had 
often  heard  talk  of  him.  Gilhooley  was  an  Irish- 
man and  fought  in  an  English  regiment ;  he  was 
notorious  for  his  mad  escapades,  his  dare-devil 
pranks,  and  his  wild  fearlessness.  Now  he  was 
opposite  to  me,  drinking  a  mate's  beer,  big,  broad- 
shouldered,  ungainly  Gilhooley. 

The  first  impression  the  sight  of  him  gave  me 
was  one  of  almost  irresistible  strength;  I  felt  that 
if  he  caught  a  man  around  the  waist  with  his 
hand  he  could,  if  he  wished  it,  squeeze  him  to 
death.  He  was  clumsily  built,  but  an  air  of  placid 
confidence  in  his  own  strength  gave  his  figure  a 
certain  grace  of  its  own.  His  eyes  glowed 
brightly  under  heavy  brows,  his  jowl  thrust  for- 


28  The  Great  PusK 

ward  aggressively  seemed  to  challenge  all  upon 
whom  he  fixed  his  gaze.  It  looked  as  if  vast 
passions  hidden  in  the  man  were  thirsting  to 
break  free  and  rout  everything.  Gilhooley  was 
a  dangerous  man  to  cross.  Report  had  it  that! 
he  was  a  bomber,  and  a  master  in  this  branch 
of  warfare.  Stories  were  told  about  him  how  he 
went  over  to  the  German  trenches  near  Vermelles 
at  dusk  every  day  for  a  fortnight,  and  on  each 
visit  flung  half  a  dozen  bombs  into  the  enemy's 
midst.  Then  he  sauntered  back  to  his  own  lines 
and  reported  to  an  officer,  saying,  "By  Jasus !  I 
go  them  out  of  it !" 

Once,  when  a  German  sniper  potting  at  our 
trenches  in  Vermelles  picked  off  a  few  of  our 
men,  an  exasperated  English  subaltern  gripped  a 
Webley  revolver  and  clambered  over  the  parapet. 

"I'm  going  to  stop  that  damned  sniper,"  said 
the  young  officer.  "I'm  going  to  earn  the  V.C. 
Who's  coming  along  with  me?" 

"I'm  with  you,"  said  Gilhooley,  scrambling 
lazily  out  into  the  open  with  a  couple  of  pet  bombs 
in  his  hand.    "By  Jasus !  we'll  get  him  out  of  it !" 

The  two  men  went  forward  for  about  twenty 
yards,  when  the  officer  fell  witK  a  bullet  through 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        29 

his  head.  Gilhooley  turned  round  and  called  back, 
"Any  other  officer  wantin'  to  earn  the  V.C.  ?" 

There  was  no  reply :  Gilhooley  sauntered  back, 
waited  in  the  trench  till  dusk,  when  he  went 
across  to  the  sniper's  abode  with  a  bomb  and  "got 
him  out  of  it." 

A  calamity  occurred  a  few  days  later.  The 
irrepressible  Irishman  was  fooling  with  a  bomb 
in  the  trench  when  it  fell  and  exploded.  Two 
soldiers  were  wounded,  and  Gilhooley  went  off 
to  the  Hospital  at  X.  with  a  metal  reminder  of 
his  discrepancy  wedged  in  the  soft  of  his  thigh. 
There  he  saw  Colonel  Z.,  or  "Up-you-go-and-the- 
best-of-luck,"  as  Colonel  Z.  is  known  to  the  rank 
and  file  of  the  B.E.F. 

The  hospital  at  X.  is  a  comfortable  place,  ana 
the  men  are  in  no  hurry  to  leave  there  for  the 
trenches;  but  when  Colonel  Z.  pronounces  them 
fit  they  must  hasten  to  the  fighting  line  again. 

Four  men  accompanied  Gilhooley  when  he  was 
considered  fit  for  further  fight.  The  five  ap- 
peared before  the  Colonel. 

"How  do  vou  feel?"  the  Colonel  asked  the  first 
man. 


30  The  Great  Push 

"Not  well  at  all,"  was  the  answer.  "I  can't 
eat  'ardly  nuffink." 

"That's  the  sort  of  man  required  up  there," 
Colonel  Z.  answered.  "So  up  you  go  and  the 
best  of  luck." 

"How  far  can  you  see  ?"  the  Colonel  asked  the 
next  man,  who  had  complained  that  his  eyesight 
was  bad. 

"Only  about  fifty  yards,"  was  the  answer. 

"Your  regiment  is  in  trenches  barely  twenty- 
five  yards  from  those  of  the  enemy,"  the  Colonel 
told  him.    "So  up  you  go,  and  the  best  of  luck." 

"Off  you  go  and  find  the  man  who  wounded 
you,"  the  third  soldier  was  told;  the  fourth  man 
confessed  that  he  had  never  killed  a  German. 

"Yon  had  better  double  up,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"Jt's  time  you  killed  one." 

It  came  to  Gilhooley's  turn. 

"How  many  men  have  you  killed?"  he  was 
asked. 

"In  and  out  about  fifty,"  was  Gilhooley's  an- 
swer. 

'Make  it  a  hundred  then,"  said  the  Colonel; 
'and  up  you  go,  and  the  best  of  luck." 

'By  Jasus!    I'll  get  fifty  more  out  of  it  in  no 


a- 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        31 

time/'  said  Gilhooley,  and  on  the  following  day 
he  sauntered  into  the  Cafe  Pierre  le  Blanc  in 
Nouex-les-Mines,  drank  another  man's  beer,  and 
sat  down  on  a  chair  at  the  table  where  four 
glasses  filled  to  the  brim  stood  sparkling  in  the 
lamplight. 

Gilhooley,  penniless  and  thirsty,  had  an  un- 
rivalled capacity  for  storing  beer  in  his  person. 

"Back  again,  Gilhooley?"  someone  remarked 
in  a  diffident  voice. 

"Back  again!"  said  Gilhooley  wearily,  putting 
his  hand  in  the  pocket  of  his  tunic  and  taking 
out  a  little  round  object  about  the  size  of  a  penny 
inkpot. 

"I  hear  there's  going  to  be  a  big  push  shortly, " 
he  muttered.  "This,"  he  said,  holding  the  bomb 
between  trigger  finger  and  thumb,  "will  go  bang 
into  the  enemy's  trenches  next  charge." 

A  dozen  horror-stricken  eyes  gazed  at  the 
bomb  for  a  second,  and  the  soldiers  in  the  cafe 
remembered  how  Gilhooley  once,  in  a  moment  of 
distraction,  forgot  that  a  fuse  was  lighted,  then 
followed  a  hurried  rush,  and  the  cafe  was  almost 
deserted   by   the   occupants.      Gilhooley    smiled 


32  The  Great  Push 

wearily,  replaced  the  bomb  in  his  pocket,  and  set 
himself  the  task  of  draining  the  beer  glasses. 

My  momentary  thrill  of  terror  died  away  when 
the  bomb  disappeared,  and,  leaving  Bill,  I  ap- 
proached the  Wild  Man's  table  and  sat  down. 

"Gilhooley?"  I  said. 

"Eh,  what  is  it?"  he  interjected. 

"Will  you  have  a  drink  with  me?"  I  hurried  to 
inquire.  "Something  better  than  this  beer  for 
a  change.    Shall  we  try  champagne?" 

"Yes,  we'll  try  it,"  he  said  sarcastically,  and 
a  queer  smile  hovered  about  his  eyes.  Somehow 
I  had  a  guilty  sense  of  doing  a  mean  action.  w  >  . 
I  called  to  Bill. 

"Come  on,  matey,"  I  said. 

Bill  approached  the  table  and  sat'  down.  I 
called  for  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

"This  is  Gilhooley,  Bill,"  I  said  to  my  mate. 
?<He's  the  bomber  we've  heard  so  much  about." 

"I  suppose  ye'll  want  to  know  everythin'  about 
me  now,  seem'  ye've  asked  me  to  take  a  drop  of 
champagne,"  said  Gilhooley,  his  voice  rising. 
"Damn  yer  champagne.  You  think  I'm  a  bloom- 
in'  alligator  in  the  Zoo,  d'ye?  Give  me  a  bun 
and  I'll  do  anythin'  ye  want  me  to." 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        33 

"That  men  should  want  to  speak  to  you  is 
merely  due  to  your  fame,"  I  said.  "In  the  dim 
recesses  of  the  trenches  men  speak  of  your  ex- 
ploits with  bated  breath " 

"What  the  devil  are  ye  talkin'  about?"  asked 
Gilhooley. 

"About  you,"  I  said. 

He  burst  out  laughing  at  this  and  clinked 
glasses  with  me  when  we  drank,  but  he  seemed 
to  forget  Bill. 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  he  was  in  high  good 
humour,  and  before  leaving  he  brought  out  his 
bomb  and  showed  that  it  was  only  a  dummy  one, 
harmless  as  an  egg-shell. 

"But  let  me  get  half  a  dozen  sergeants  round 
a  rum  jar  and  out  comes  this  bomb!"  said  Gil- 
hooley. "Then  they  fly  like  hell  and  I  get  a 
double  tot  of  rum." 

"It's  a  damned  good  idea,"  I  said.  "What  is 
he  wanting?" 

I  pointed  at  the  military  policeman  who  had 
just  poked  his  head  through  the  cafe  door.  He 
looked  round  the  room,  taking  stock  of  the  occu- 
pants. 


1 

34  THe  Great  PusH 

"All  men  of  the  London  Irish  must  report  to! 
their  companies  at  once,"  he  shouted. 

"There's  somethin'  on  the  blurry  boards 
again,"  said  Bill  Teake.  "I  suppose  we've  got 
to  get  up  to  the  trenches  to-night.  We  were  up 
last  night  diggin',"  he  said  to  Gilhooley. 

Gilhooley  shrugged  his  shoulders,  took  a  stump 
of  a  cigarette  from  behind  his  ear  and  lit  it. 

"Take  care  of  yourselves,"  he  said  as  he  went 
out. 

At  half-past  nine  we  marched  out  of  Nouex- 
les-Mines  bound  for  the  trenches  where  we  had 
to  continue  the  digging  which  we  had  started 
the  night  before. 

The  brigade  holding  the  firing  line  told  us  that 
the  enemy  were  registering  their  range  during 
the  day,  and  the  objective  was  the  trench  which 
we  had  dug  on  the  previous  night.  .  .  .  Then  we 
knew  that  the  work  before  us  was  fraught  with 
danger ;  we  would  certainly  be  shelled  when  oper- 
ations started.  In  single  file,  with  rifles  and 
picks  over  their  shoulders,  the  boys  went  out  into 
the  perilous  space  between  the  lines.  The  night 
was  grey  with  rain ;  not  a  star  was  visible  in  the 
drab  expanse  of  cloudy  sky,  and  the  wet  oozed 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        35 

ffrom  sandbag  and  dugout;  the  trench  itself  was 
sodden,  and  slush  squirted  about  the  boots  that 
ishufrled  along;  it  was  a  miserable  night.  One  of 
our  men  returned  to  the  post  occupied  by  the 
stretcher-bearers;  he  had  become  suddenly  un- 
well with  a  violent  pain  in  his  stomach.  We  took 
him  back  to  the  nearest  dressing-station  and  there 
he  was  put  into  an  Engineers'  wagon  which  was 
returning  to  the  village  in  which  our  regiment 
was  quartered. 

Returning,  I  went  out  into  the  open  between 
the  lines.  Our  men  were  working  across  the 
(front,  little  dark,  blurred  figures  in  the  rainy 
greyness,  picks  and  shovels  were  rising  and  fall- 
ing, and  lumps  of  earth  were  being  flung  out  on 
to  the  grass.  The  enemy  were  already  shelling 
on  the  left,  the  white  flash  of  shrapnel  and 
the  red,  lurid  flames  of  bursting  concussion  shells 
lit  up  the  night.  So  far  the  missiles  were  either 
falling  short  or  overshooting  their  mark,  and  no- 
body had  been  touched.  I  just  got  to  our  com- 
pany when  the  enemy  began  to  shell  it.  There 
was  a  hurried  flop  to  earth  in  the  newly-dug 
holes,  and  I  was  immediately  down  flat  on  my 
face  on  top  of  several  prostrate  figures,  a  shrap- 


36  The  Great  Push 

nel  burst  in  front,  and  a  hail  of  singing  bullets; 
dug  into  the  earth  all  round.  A  concussion  shell 
raced  past  overhead  and  broke  into  splinters  by 
the  fire  trench,  several  of  the  pieces  whizzing 
back  as  far  as  the  working  party. 

There  followed  a  hail  of  shells,  flash  on  flash, 
and  explosion  after  explosion  over  our  heads; 
the  moment  was  a  ticklish  one,  and  I  longed  for 
the  comparative  safety  of  the  fire  trench.  Why 
had  I  come  out?  I  should  have  stopped  with  the 
other  stretcher-bearers.  But  what  did  it  matter? 
I  was  in  no  greater  danger  than  any  of  my  mates ; 
what  they  had  to  stick  I  could  stick,  for  the  mo- 
ment at  least. 

The  shelling  subsided  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
begun.  I  got  up  again  to  find  my  attention  di- 
rected towards  something  in  front ;  a  dark  figure 
kneeling  on  the  ground.  I  went  forward  and 
found  a  dead  soldier,  a  Frenchman,  a  mere  skele- 
ton with  the  flesh  eaten  away  from  his  face,  lean- 
ing forward  on  his  entrenching  tool  over  a  little 
hole  that  he  had  dug  in  the  ground  months  be- 
fore. 

A  tragedy  was  there,  one  of  the  sorrowful 
sights  of  war.    The  man,  no  doubt,  had  been  in 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        37 

a  charge — the  French  made  a  bayonet  attack 
across  this  ground  in  the  early  part  of  last  winter 
k — and  had  been  wounded.  Immediately  he  was 
struck  he  got  out  his  entrenching  tool  and  en- 
deavoured to  dig  himself  in.  A  few  shovels ful 
of  earth  were  scooped  out  when  a  bullet  struck 
him,  and  he  leaned  forward  on  his  entrenching 
tool,  dead.  Thus  I  found  him;  and  the  picture 
in  the  grey  night  was  one  of  a  dead  man  resting 
'for  a  moment  as  he  dug  his  own  grave. 

"See  that  dead  man?"  I  said  to  one  of  the  dig- 
ging party. 

"H'm !  there  are  hundreds  of  them  lying  here," 
was  the  answer,  given  almost  indifferently.  "I 
had  to  throw  four  to  one  side  before  I  could  start 

digging!" 

I  went  back  to  the  stretcher-bearers  again ;  the 
men  of  my  own  company  were  standing  under 
a  shrapnel-proof  bomb  store,  smoking  and  hum- 
ming ragtime  in  low,  monotonous  voices.  Music- 
hall  melodies  are  so  melancholy  at  times,  so  full 
of  pathos,  especially  on  a  wet  night  under  shell 
fire. 

"Where  are  the  other  stretcher-bearers?"  I 
asked. 


38  The  Great  Push 

"They've  gone  out  to  the  front  to  their  com- 
panies," I  was  told.  "Some  of  their  men  have 
been  hit." 

"Badly?" 

"No  one  knows,"  was  the  answer.  "Are  our 
boys  all  right?" 

"As  far  as  I  could  see  they're  safe;  but  they're 
getting  shelled  in  an  unhealthy  manner." 

"They've  left  off  firing  now,"  said  one  of  my 
mates.  "You  should've  seen  the  splinters  com- 
ing in  here  a  minute  ago,  pit!  pit!  plop!  on  the 
sandbags.     It's  beastly  out  in  the  open." 

A  man  came  running  along  the  trench,  stum- 
bled into  our  shelter,  and  sat  down  on  a  sand- 
bag. 

"You're  the  London  Irish  ?"  he  asked. 

"Stretcher-bearers,"  I  said.  "Have  you  been 
out?" 

"My  God!  I  have,"  he  answered.  "  'Tisn't 
half  a  do,  either.  A  shell  comes  over  and  down 
I  flops  in  the  trench.  My  mate  was  standing  on 
the  parapet  and  down  he  fell  atop  of  me.  God! 
'twasn't  half  a  squeeze;  I  thought  I  was  burst  like 
a  bubble. 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        39 

"'Git  off,  matey,'  I  yells,  Tm  squeezed  to 
death !' 

"  'Squeezed  to  death,'  them  was  my  words. 
But  he  didn't  move,  and  something  warm  and 
sloppy  ran  down  my  face.  It  turned  me  sick.  .  .  . 
I  wriggled  out  from  under  and  had  a  look.  .  .  . 
He  was  dead,  with  half  his  head  blown 
away.  .  .  .  Your  boys  are  sticking  to  the  work 
out  there;  just  going  on  with  the  job  as  if  noth- 
ing was  amiss.  When  is  the  whole  damned  thing 
to  come  to  a  finish?" 

A  momentary  lull  followed,  and  a  million 
sparks  fluttered  earthwards  from  a  galaxy  of 
searching  star-shells. 

"Why  are  such  beautiful  lights  used  in  the 
killing  of  men?"  I  asked  myself.  Above  in  the 
quiet  the  gods  were  meditating,  then,  losing  pa- 
tience, they  again  burst  into  irrevocable  rage, 
seeking,  as  it  seemed,  some  obscure  and  fierce 
retribution. 

The  shells  wrere  loosened  again ;  there  was  no 
escape  from  their  frightful  vitality,  they  crushed, 
burrowed,  exterminated;  obstacles  were  broken 
down,  and  men's  lives  were  flicked  out  like  flies 
off  a  window  pane.     A  dug-out  flew  skywards, 


46  The  Great  Push 

and  the  roof  beams  fell  in  the  trench  at  our 
feet.  We  crouched  under  the  bomb-shelter,  mute, 
pale,  hesitating.  Oh !  the  terrible  anxiety  of  men 
who  wait  passively  for  something  to  take  place 
and  always  fearing  the  worst!" 

"Stretcher-bearers  at  the  double !" 

We  met  him,  crawling  in  on  all  fours  like  a, 
beetle,  the  first  case  that  came  under  our  care. 
We  dressed  a  stomach  wound  in  the  dug-out:, 
and  gave  the  boy  two  morphia  tablets.  .  .  ,.] 
He  sank  into  unconsciousness  and  never  recov- 
ered. His  grave  is  out  behind  the  church  of 
Loos-Gohelle,  and  his  cap  hangs  on  the  arm  of 
the  cross  that  marks  his  sleeping  place.  A  man 
had  the  calf  of  his  right  leg  blown  away;  he  died 
from  shock;  another  got  a  bullet  through  his 
skull,  another  .  .  .  But  why  enumerate  how 
young  lives  were  hurled  away  from  young 
bodies?   .    .    . 

On  the  field  of  death,  the  shells,  in  colossal 
joy,  chorused  their  terrible  harmonies,  making 
the  heavens  sonorous  with  their  wanton  and  un- 
bridled frenzy ;  star-shells,  which  seemed  at  times 
to  be  fixed  on  ceiling  of  the  sky,  oscillated  in  a 
dazzling  whirl  of  red  and  green — and  men  died. 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        41 

...  We  remained  in  the  trenches  the  next  day. 
They  were  very  quiet,  and  we  lay  at  ease  in  our 
dug-outs,  read  week-old  papers,  wrote  letters  and 
took  turns  on  sentry-go.  On  our  front  lay  a  dull 
'brown,  monotonous  level  and  two  red-brick  vil- 
lages,  Loos  and  Hulluch.  Our  barbed-wire  en- 
tanglement,  twisted  and  shell-scarred,  showed 
countless  rusty  spikes  which  stuck  out  ominous 
and  forbidding.  A  dead  German  hung  on  a  wire 
prop,  his  feet  caught  in  a  cheval  de  frise,  the 
skin  of  his  face  peeling  away  from  his  bones, 
and  his  hand  clutching  the  wire  as  if  for  support. 
He  had  been  out  there  for  many  months,  a  fool- 
hardy foe  who  got  a  bullet  through  his  head  when 
examining  our  defences. 

Here,  in  this  salient,  the  war  had  its  routine 
and  habits,  everything  was  done  with  regimental 
precision,  and  men  followed  the  trade  of  arms  as 
clerks  follow  their  profession:  to  each  man  was 
allocated  his  post,  he  worked  a  certain  number 
of  hours,  slept  at  stated  times,  had  breakfast  at 
dawn,  lunch  at  noon,  and  tea  at  four.  The  ration 
parties  called  on  the  cave-dwellers  with  the 
promptitude  of  the  butcher  and  baker,  who  at- 
tend to  the  needs  of  the  villa-dwellers. 


42  The  Great  Push 

The  postmen  called  at  the  dug-outs  when  dusk 
was  settling-,  and  delivered  letters  and  parcels. 
Letter-boxes  were  placed  in  the  parados  walls 
and  the  hours  of  collection  written  upon  them  in 
pencil  or  chalk.  Concerts  were  held  in  the  big 
dug-outs,  and  little  supper  parties  were  fashion- 
able when  parcels  were  bulky.  Tea  was  drunk  in 
the  open,  the  soldiers  ate  at  looted  tables,  spread 
outside  the  dug-out  doors.  Over  the  "Savoy"  a 
picture  of  the  Mother  of  Perpetual  Succour  was 
to  be  seen  and  the  boys  who  lived  there  swore 
"that  it  brought  them  good  luck ;  they  always  won 
at  Banker  and  Brag.  All  shaved  daily  and 
washed  with  perfumed  soaps. 

The  artillery  exchanged  shots  every  morning 
just  to  keep  the  guns  clean.  Sometimes  a  rifle 
shot  might  be  heard,  and  we  would  ask,  "Who  is 
firing  at  the  birds  on  the  wire  entanglements?" 
The  days  were  peaceful  then,  but  now  all  was 
different.  The  temper  of  the  salient  had 
changed. 

In  the  distance  we  could  see  Lens,  a  mining 
town  with  many  large  chimneys,  one  of  which 
was  almost  hidden  in  its  own  smoke.  No  doubt 
the  Germans  were  working  the  coal  mines.    Loos 


Out  from  Nouex-les-Mines        43 

looked  quite  small,  there  was  a  big  slag-heap  on 
its  right,  and  on  its  left  was  a  windmill  with 
shattered  wings.  We  had  been  shelling  the  vil- 
lage persistently  for  days,  and,  though  it  was 
not  battered  as  Philosophe  and  Maroc  were  bat- 
tered, many  big,  ugly  rents  and  fractures  were 
showing  on  the  red-brick  houses. 

But  it  stood  its  beating  well;  it  takes  a  lot  of 
strafing  to  bring  down  even  a  jerry-built  village. 
Houses  built  for  a  few  hundred  francs  in  times 
of  peace,  cost  thousands  of  pounds  to  demolish 
in  days  of  war.  I  suppose  war  is  the  most  costly 
means  of  destruction. 

Rumours  flew  about  daily.  Men  spoke  of  a 
big  push  ahead,  fixed  the  date  for  the  great 
charge,  and,  as  proof  of  their  gossip,  pointed  at 
innumerable  guns  and  wagons  of  shell  which 
came  through  Les  Brebis  and  Nouex-les-Mines 
daily.  Even  the  Germans  got  wind  of  our  activ- 
ities, and  in  front  of  the  blue-black  slag-heap  on 
the  right  of  Loos  they  placed  a  large  white  board 
with  the  question  written  fair  in  big,  black  let- 
ters: 


44:  The  Great  PusK 

S'WHEN  IS  THE  BIG  PUSH  COMING  OFF? 
WE  ARE  WAITING." 

A  well-directed  shell  blew  the  board  to  pieces 
Jen  minutes  after  it  was  put  up. 

I  had  a  very  nice  dug-out  in  these  trenches. 
It  burrowed  into  the  chalk,  and  its  walls  were 
as  white  as  snow.  When  the  candle  was  lit  in  the 
twilight,  the  most  wonderfully  soft  shadows 
rustled  over  the  roof  and  walls.  The  shadow  of 
an  elbow  of  chalk  sticking  out  in  the  wall  over  my 
bed  looked  like  the  beak  of  a  great  formless  vul- 
ture. On  a  closer  examination  I  found  that  I 
had  mistaken  a  wide-diffused  bloodstain  for  a 
shadow.  A  man  had  come  into  the  place  once 
and  he  died  there;  his  death  was  written  in  red 
on  the  wall. 

I  named  the  dug-out  "The  Last  House  in  the 
World."  Was  it  not?  It  was  the  last  tenanted 
house  in  our  world. 

Over  the  parapet  of  the  trench  was  the  Un- 
known with  its  mysteries  deep  as  those  of  the 
grave. 


CHAPTER  III 

PREPARATIONS    FOR   LOOS 

"Death  will  give  us  all  a  clean  sheet." — Dudley  Pryor. 

WE,  the  London  Irish  Rifles,  know  Les 
Brebis  well,  know  every  cafe  and  esta* 
minet,  every  street  and  corner,  every 
house,  broken  or  sound,  every  washerwoman, 
wineshop  matron,  handy  cook,  and  pretty  girl. 
Time  after  time  we  have  returned  from  the 
trenches  to  our  old  billet  to  find  the  good  house- 
wife up  and  waiting  for  us.  She  was  a  lank 
woman,  made  and  clothed  anyhow.  Her  gar- 
ments looked  as  if  they  had  been  put  on  with  a 
pitchfork.  Her  eyes  protruded  from  their  sock- 
ets, and  one  felt  that  if  her  tightly  strained 
eyelids  relaxed  their  grip  for  a  moment  the  eyes' 
would  roll  out  on  the  floor.  Her  upper  teetK 
protruded,  and  the  point  of  her  receding  chin  had 
lost  itself  somewhere  in  the  hollow  of  her  neck. 
Her  pendant  breasts  hung  flabbily,  and  it  was  a 
miracle  how  her  youngest  child,  Gustave,  a  tot 

45 


46  The  Great  PusK 

of  seven  months,  could  find  any  sustenance  there. 
She  had  three  children,  who  prattled  all  through 
the  peaceful  hours  of  the  day.  When  the  enemy 
fehelled  Les  Brebis  the  children  were  bundled 
clown  into  the  cellar,  and  the  mother  went  out  to 
pick  percussion  caps  from  the  streets.  These 
she  sold  to  officers  going  home  on  leave.  The 
value  of  the  percussion  cap  was  fixed  by  the  dam- 
age which  the  shell  had  done.  A  shell  which  fell 
on  Les  Brebis  school  and  killed  many  men  was 
picked  up  by  this  good  woman,  and  at  the  pres- 
ent moment  it  is  in  my  possession.  We  nick- 
named this  woman  "Joan  of  Arc." 

We  had  a  delightful  billet  in  this  woman's 
house.  We  came  in  from  war  to  find  a  big  fire 
In  the  stove  and  basins  of  hot,  steaming  cafe-au- 
iait  on  the  table.  If  we  returned  from  duty  drip- 
ping wet  through  the  rain,  lines  were  hung  across 
from  wall  to  wall,  and  we  knew  that  morning 
would  find  our  muddy  clothes  warm  and  dry.  The 
woman  would  count  our  number  as  we  entered. 
.One  less  than  when  we  left!  The  missing  man 
wore  spectacles.  She  remembered  him  and  all 
his  mannerisms.  He  used  to  nurse  her  little  baby 
boy,  Gustave,  and  play  games  with  the  mite's 


Preparations  for  Eoos  47 

toes.  What  had  happened  to  him?  He  was 
killed  by  a  shell,  we  told  her.  On  the  road  to 
the  trenches  he  was  hit.  Then  a  mist  gathered 
in  the  woman's  eyes,  and  two  tears  rolled  down 
her  cheeks.     We  drank  our  cafe-au-lait. 

"Combien,  madam  ?" 

"Souvenir,"  was  the  reply  through  sobs,  and 
we  thanked  her  for  the  kindness.  Upstairs  we 
bundled  into  our  room,  and  threw  our  equipment 
down  on  the  clean  wooden  floor,  lit  a  candle  and 
undressed.  All  wet  clothes  were  flung  down- 
stairs, where  the  woman  would  hang  them  up  to 
dry.  Everything  was  the  same  here  as  when  we 
left;  save  where  the  last  regiment  had,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  inspiration,  chronicled  its  deeds  in  verse 
on  the  wall.  Pryor,  the  lance-corporal,  read  the 
poem  aloud  to  us : 

"Gentlemen,  the  Guards, 
When  the  brick  fields  they  took 
The  Germans  took  the  hook 
And  left  the  Gentlemen  in  charge." 

The  soldiers  who  came  and  went  voiced  their 
griefs  on  this  wall,  but  in  latrine  language  and 
Rabelaisian  humour.  Here  were  three  proverbs 
written  in  a  shaky  hand: 


48  The  Great  Push 

"The  Army  pays  good  money,  but  little  of  it." 

"In  the  Army  you  are  sertin  to  receive  what  you  get." 

"The  wages  of  sin  and  a  soldir  is  death." 

Under  these  was  a  couplet  written  by  a  fatal- 
ist: 

"I  don't  care  if  the  Germans  come, 
If  I  have  an  extra  tot  of  rum." 

Names  of  men  were  scrawled  everywhere  on 
the  wall,  from  roof  to  floor.  Why  have  some 
men  this  desire  to  scrawl  their  names  on  every 
white  surface  they  see,  I  often  wonder?  One  of 
my  mates,  who  wondered  as  I  did,  finally  found 
expression  in  verse,  which  glared  forth  accus- 
ingly from  the  midst  of  the  riot  of  names  in  the 
room: 

"A  man's  ambition  must  be  small 
Who  writes  his  name  upon  this  wall, 
And  well  he  does  deserve  his  pay 
A  measly,  mucky  bob  a  day." 

The  woman  never  seemed  to  mind  this  scrib- 
bling on  the  wall ;  in  Les  Brebis  they  have  to  put 
up  with  worse  than  this.  The  house  of  which  I 
speak  is  the  nearest  inhabited  one  to  the  firing 
line.  Half  the  houses  in  the  street  are  blown 
down,  and  every  ruin  has  its  tragedy.  The  na- 
tives are  gradually  getting  thinned  out  by  the 


Preparations  for  Loos  49 

weapons  of  war.  The  people  refuse  to  quit  their 
homes.  This  woman  has  a  sister  in  Nouex-les- 
Mines,  a  town  five  kilometres  further  away 
.'from  the  firing  line,  but  she  refused  to  go  there. 
■"The  people  of  Nouex-les-Mines  are  no  good," 
ishe  told  us.  "I  would  not  be  where  they  are. 
Nobody  can  trust  them." 

The  history  of  Les  Brebis  must,  if  written, 
be  written  in  blood.  The  washerwoman  who 
washed  our  shirts  could  tell  stories  of  adventure 
that  would  eclipse  tales  of  romance  as  the  sun 
eclipses  a  brazier.  Honesty  and  fortitude  are 
the  predominant  traits  of  the  Frenchwoman. 

Once  I  gave  the  washerwoman  my  cardigan 
jacket  to  wash,  and  immediately  afterwards  we 
were  ordered  off  to  the  trenches.  When  we  left 
the  firing  line  we  went  back  to  Nouex-les-Mines. 
A  month  passed  before  the  regiment  got  to  Les 
Brebis  again.  The  washerwoman  called  at  my 
billet  and  brought  back  the  cardigan  jacket,  also 
a  franc  piece  which  she  had  found  in  the  pocket. 
On  the  day  following  the  woman  was  washing 
her  baby  at  a  pump  in  the  street  and  a  shell  blew 
her  head  off.  Pieces  of  the  child  were  picked  up 
a  hundred  yards  away.     The  washerwoman's- 


50  The  Great  Push 

second  husband  (she  had  been  married  twice)" 
was  away  at  the  war;  all  that  remained  in  the 
household  now  was  a  daughter  whom  Pryor,  with 
his  nicknaming  craze,  dubbed  "Mercedes." 

But  here  in  Les  Brebis,  amidst  death  and  deso- 
lation, wont  and  use  held  their  sway.  The  cata- 
clysm of  a  continent  had  not  changed  the  ways 
and  manners  of  the  villagers,  they  took  things 
phlegmatically,  with  fatalistic  calm.  The  chil- 
dren played  in  the  gutters  of  the  streets,  lovers 
met  beneath  the  stars  and  told  the  story  of  an- 
cient passion,  the  miser  hoarded  his  money,  the 
preacher  spoke  to  his  Sunday  congregation,  and 
the  plate  was  handed  round  for  the  worshippers' 
sous,  men  and  women  died  natural  deaths,  chil- 
dren were  born,  females  chattered  at  the  street 
pumps  and  circulated  rumours  about  their  neigh- 
bours. .  .  .  All  this  when  wagons  of  shells  passed 
through  the  streets  all  day  and  big  guns  travelled 
up  nearer  the  lines  every  night.  Never  had  Les 
Brebis  known  such  traffic.  Horses,  limbers  and 
guns,  guns,  limbers  and  horses  going  and  com- 
ing from  dawn  to  dusk  and  from  dusk  to  dawn. 
From  their  emplacements  in  every  spinney  and 
every  hollow  in  the  fields  the  guns  spoke  earnestly 


Preparations  for  Loos  51 

and  continuously.  Never  had  guns  voiced  such  a 
threat  before.  They  were  everywhere;  could 
there  be  room  for  another  in  all  the  spaces  of  Les 
Brebis  and  our  front  line?  It  was  impossible  to 
believe  it,  but  still  they  came  up,  monsters  with  a 
mysterious  air  of  detachment  perched  on  limbers 
with  caterpillar  wheels,  little  field  guns  that 
flashed  metallic  glints  to  the  cafe  lamps,  squat 
trench  howitzers  on  steel  platforms  impassive  as 
toads.  .  .  . 

The  coming  and  passing  was  a  grand  poem, 
and  the  poem  found  expression  in  clanging  and 
rattle  in  the  streets  of  Les  Brebis  through  the 
days  and  nights  of  August  and  September,  191 5. 
For  us,  we  worked  in  our  little  ways,  dug  ad- 
vanced trenches  under  shell  fire  in  a  field  where 
four  thousand  dead  Frenchmen  were  wasting  to 
clay.  These  men  had  charged  last  winter  and  fell 
to  maxim  and  rifle  fire;  over  their  bodies  we  were 
to  charge  presently  and  take  Loos  and  the 
trenches  behind.  The  London  Irish  were  to  cross 
the  top  in  the  first  line  of  attack,  so  the  rumour 
said. 

One  evening,  when  dusk  was  settling  in  the 
streets,  when  ruined  houses  assumed  fantastic 


g2  The  Great  Push 

shapes,  and  spirits  seemed  to  be  lurking  in  the 
shattered  piles,  we  went  up  the  streets  of  Les 
Brebis  on  our  way  to  the  trenches.  Over  by  the 
church  of  Les  Brebis,  the  spire  of  which  was 
sharply  defined  in  the  clear  air,  the  shells  were 
bursting  and  the  smoke  of  the  explosions  curled 
above  the  red  roofs  of  the  houses.  The  enemy 
was  bombarding  the  road  ahead,  and  the  wounded 
were  being  carried  back  to  the  dressing  stations. 
We  met  many  stretchers  on  the  road.  The 
church  of  Bully-Grenay  had  been  hit,  and  a  barn 
near  the  church  had  been  blown  in  on  top  of  a 
platoon  of  soldiers  which  occupied  it.  We  had 
to  pass  the  church.  The  whole  battalion  seemed 
to  be  very  nervous,  and  a  presentiment  of  some- 
thing evil  seemed  to  fill  the  minds  of  the  men. 
The  mood  was  not  of  common  occurrence,  but 
this  unaccountable  depression  permeates  whole 
bodies  of  men  at  times. 

We  marched  in  silence,  hardly  daring  to 
breathe.  Ahead,  under  a  hurricane  of  shell, 
Bully-Grenay  was  withering  to  earth.  The  night 
itself  was  dark  and  subdued,  not  a  breeze  stirred 
in  the  poplars  which  lined  the  long,  straight  road. 
Now  and  again,  when  a  star-shell  flamed  over 


Preparations  for  Loos  53 

the  firing  line,  we  caught  a  glimpse  of  Bully-Gre- 
nay,  huddled  and  helpless,  its  houses  battered, 
its  church  riven,  its  chimneys  fractured  and  lacer- 
ated. We  dreaded  passing  the  church;  the  cob- 
bles on  the  roadway  there  were  red  with  the 
blood  of  men. 

We  got  into  the  village,  which  was  deserted 
even  by  the  soldiery;  the  civil  population  had  left 
the  place  weeks  ago.  We  reached  the  church, 
and  there,  arm  in  arm,  we  encountered  a  French 
soldier  and  a  young  girl.  They  took  very  little 
notice  of  us,  they  were  deep  in  sweet  confidences 
which  only  the  young  can  exchange.  The  maiden 
was  "Mercedes."  The  sight  was  good;  it  was 
as  a  tonic  to  us.  A  load  seemed  to  have  been 
lifted  off  our  shoulders,  and  we  experienced  a 
light  and  airy  sensation  of  heart.  We  reached 
the  trenches  without  mishap,  and  set  about  our 
work.  The  enemy  spotted  us  digging  a  new  sap, 
and  he  began  to  shell  with  more  than  usual 
vigour.  We  were  rather  unlucky,  for  four  of 
our  men  were  killed  and  nine  or  ten  got  wounded. 

Night  after  night  we  went  up  to  the  trenches 
and  performed  our  various  duties.  Keeps  and 
redoubts  were  strengthened  and  four  machine 


54  The  Great  Push 

guns  were  placed  where  only  one  stood  before. 
Always  while  we  worked  the  artillery  on  botK 
sides  conducted  a  loud-voiced  argument ;  concus- 
sion shells  played  havoc  with  masonry,  and  shrap- 
'nel  shells  flung  their  deadly  freight  on  roads 
where  the  transports  hurried,  and  where  the  long- 
eared  mules  sweated  in  the  traces  of  the  limbers 
of  war.  We  spoke  of  the  big  work  ahead,  but 
up  till  the  evening  preceding  Saturday,  Septem- 
ber 25th,  we  were  not  aware  of  the  part  which 
we  had  to  play  in  the  forthcoming  event.  An 
hour  before  dusk  our  officer  read  instructions, 
and  outlined  the  plan  of  the  main  attack,  which 
would  start  at  dawn  on  the  following  day,  Sep- 
tember 25th,  191 5. 

In  co-operation  with'  an  offensive  movement 
by  the  10th  French  Army  on  our  right,  the  1st 
and  4th  Army  Corps  were  to  attack  the  enemy 
from  a  point  opposite  Bully-Grenay  on  the  south 
to  the  La  Bassee  Canal  on  the  north.  We  had 
dug  the  assembly  trenches  on  our  right  opposite 
Bully-Grenay ;  that  was  to  be  the  starting  point 
for  the  4th  Corps— our  Corps.  Our  Division, 
the  47th  London,  would  lead  the  attack  of  the 


Preparations  for  Loos  55 

4th  Army  Corps,  and  the  London  Irish  would 
be  the  first  in  the  fight.  Our  objective  was  the 
second  German  trench  which  lay  just  in  front  of 
Loos  village  and  a  mile  away  from  our  own  first 
line  trench.  Every  movement  of  the  operations 
had  been  carefully  planned,  and  nothing  was  left 
to  chance.  Never  had  we  as  many  guns  as  now, 
and  these  guns  had  been  bombarding  the  enemy's 
positions  almost  incessantly  for  ten  days. 
Smoke  bombs  would  be  used.  The  thick  fumes 
resulting  from  their  explosion  between  the  lines 
would  cover  our  advance.  At  five  o'clock  all 
our  guns,  great  and  small,  would  open  up  a  heavy 
fire.  Our  aircraft  had  located  most  of  the 
enemy's  batteries,  and  our  heavy  guns  would  be 
trained  on  these  until  they  put  them  out  of  ac- 
tion. Five  minutes  past  six  our  guns  would 
lengthen  their  range  and  shell  the  enemy's  re- 
serves, and  at  the  same  moment  our  regiment 
would  get  clear  of  the  trenches  and  advance  in 
four  lines  in  extended  order  with  a  second's  in- 
terval between  the  lines.  The  advance  must  be 
made  in  silence  at  a  steady  pace. 

Stretcher  bearers  had  to  cross  with  their  com- 


56  THe  Great  PusK 

panies;  none  of  the  attacking  party  must  deal 
with  the  men  who  fell  out  on  the  way  across.  A 
party  would  be  detailed  out  to  attend  to  the 
wounded  who  fell  near  the  assembly  trenches. 
.  .  .  The  attack  had  been  planned  with  such  in- 
telligent foresight  that  our  casualties  would  be 
very  few.  The  job  before  us  was  quite  easy  and 
simple. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  I  asked  my  mate, 
Bill  Teake.  "I  think  a  bottle  of  champagne  would 
be  very  nice." 

"Just  what  I  thought  myself,"  said  Bill.  "I 
see  Dudley  Pryor  is  off  to  the  cafe  already.  I've 
no  money.    I'm  pore  as  a  mummy." 

"You  got  paid  yesterday,"  I  said  with  a  laugh., 
"You  get  poor  very  quickly." 

An  embarrassed  smile  fluttered  around  his  lips. 

"A  man  gets  pore  'cordin'  to  no  rule,"  he  re- 
plied.   "Leastways,  I  do." 

"Well,  I've  got  a  lot  of  francs,"  I  said.  "We 
may  as  well  spend  it." 

"You're  damned  right,"  he  answered,  "Maybe 
we'll  not  'ave  a  chance  to " 


"It  doesn't  matter  a  damn  whether- 


>» 


Preparations  for  Loos  57 

"The  officer  says  it  will  be  an  easy  job.    I  don't 

know  the " 

He  paused.    We  understood  things  half  spoken. 

"Champagne  ?"  I  hinted. 

"Nothing  like  champagne,"  said  Bill. 


CHAPTER  IV 

BEFORE   THE   CHARGE 

Before  I  joined  the  Army 

I  lived  in  Donegal, 
Where  every  night  the  Fairies, 

Would  hold  their  carnival. 

But  now  I'm  out  in  Flanders, 
Where  men  like  wheat-ears  fall, 

And  it's  Death  and  not  the  Fairies 
Who  is  holding  carnival. 

I  POKED  my  head  through  the  upper  window 
of  our  billet  and  looked  down  the  street. 
An  ominous  calm  brooded  over  the  village, 
the  trees  which  lined  the  streets  stood  immovable 
in  the  darkness,  with  lone  shadows  clinging  to 
the  trunks.  On  my  right,  across  a  little  rise,  was 
the  firing  line.  In  the  near  distance  was  the  vil- 
lage of  Bully-Grenay,  roofless  and  tenantless,  and 
further  off  was  Philosophe,  the  hamlet  with  its 
dark-blue  slag-heap  bulking  large  against  the  ho- 
rizon. Souchez  in  the  hills  was  as  usual  active ; 
a  heavy  artillery  engagement  was  in  progress. 

White  and  lurid  splashes  of  flame  dabbed  at  the 

58 


Before  the  Charge  59 

sky,  and  the  smoke,  rising  from  the  ground,  paled 
in  the  higher  air;  but  the  breeze  blowing  away 
from  me  carried  the  tumult  and  thunder  far 
from  my  ears.  I  looked  on  a  conflict  without: 
sound;  a  furious  fight  seen  but  unheard. 

A  coal-heap  near  the  village  stood,  colossal 
and  threatening;  an  engine  shunted  a  long  row, 
of  wagons  along  the  railway  line  which  fringed 
Les  Brebis.  In  a  pit  by  the  mine  a  big  gun  be- 
gan to  speak  loudly,  and  the  echo  of  its  voice 
palpitated  through  the  room  and  dislodged  a  tile 
from  the  roof.  .  .  .  My  mind  was  suddenly  per- 
meated by  a  feeling  of  proximity  to  the  enemy. 
He  whom  we  were  going  to  attack  at  dawn 
seemed  to  be  very  close  to  me.  I  could  almost 
feel  his  presence  in  the  room.  At  dawn  I  might 
deprive  him  of  life  and  he  might  deprive  me  of 
mine.  Two  beings  give  life  to  a  man,  but  one 
can  deprive  him  of  it.  Which  is  the  greater 
mystery?  Birth  or  death?  They  who  are  re- 
sponsible for  the  first  may  take  pleasure,  but 
who  can  glory  in  the  second  ?  ...  To  kill  a  man. 
...  To  feel  for  ever  after  the  deed  that  you 
have  deprived  a  fellow  being  of  life! 

"We're  beginning  to  strafe  again,"  said  Pryor, 


6o  The  Great  Push 

coming  to  my  side  as  a  second  reverberation 
shook  the  house.  "It  doesn't  matter.  I've  got  a 
bottle  of  champagne  and  a  box  of  cigars." 

"I've  got  a  bottle  as  well,"  I  said. 

"There'll  be  a  hell  of  a  do  to-morrow,"  said 
Pryor. 

"I  suppose  there  will,"  I  replied.  "The  officer 
said  that  our  job  will  be  quite  an  easy  one." 

"H'm !"  said  Pryor. 

I  looked  down  at  the  street  and  saw  Bill  Teake. 

"There's  Bill  down  there,"  I  remarked.  "He's 
singing  a  song.    Listen." 

H  'I  like  your  smile, 
I  like  your  style, 
I  like  your  soft  blue  dreamy  eyes- 


>  » 


"There's  passion  in  that  voice,"  I  said.  "Has 
he  fallen  in  love  again?" 

A  cork  went  plunk!  from  a  bottle  behind  me, 
and  Pryor  from  the  shadows  of  the  room  an- 
swered, "Oh,  yes!  He's  in  love  again;  the  girl 
next  door  is  his  fancy  now." 

"Oh,  so  it  seems,"  I  said.  "She's  out  at  the 
pump  now  and  Bill  is  edging  up  to  her  as  quietly 
as  if  he  were  going  to  loot  a  chicken  off  its  perch." 

Bill  is  a  boy  for  the  girls ;  he  finds  a  new  love 


Before  the  Charge  61 

at:  every  billet.  His  rfresH  flame  was  a  squat 
stump  of  a  Millet  girl  in  short  petticoats  and 
stout  sabots.  Her  eyes  were  a  deep  black,  her 
teeth  very  white.  She  was  a  comfortable,  good- 
natured  girl,  "a  big  'andful  of  love,"  as  he  said 
himself,  but  she  was  not  very  good-looking. 

Bill  sidled  up  to  her  side  and  fixed  an  earnest 
gaze  on  the  water  falling  from  the  pump;  then 
he  nudged  the  girl  in  the  hip  with  a  playful  hand 
and  ran  his  fingers  over  the  back  of  her  neck. 

"Allez  vous  en !"  she  cried,  but  otherwise  made 
no  attempt  to  resist  Bill's  advances. 

"Allez  voos  ong  yerself !"  said  Bill,  and  burst 
into  song  again. 

"  'She's  the  pretty  little  girl  from  Nowhere, 
Nowhere  at  all. 
She's  the '" 

*  He  was  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  any 
longer,  and  he  clasped  the  girl  round  the  waist 
and  planted  a  kiss  on  her  cheek.  The  maiden 
did  not  relish  this  familiarity.  Stooping  down 
she  placed  her  hand  in  the  pail,  raised  a  handful 
of  water  and  flung  it  in  Bill's  face.  The  Cock- 
ney retired  crestfallen  and  spluttering,  and  a  few 
minutes  afterwards  he  entered  the  room. 


62  The  Great  Push 

"Yes,  I  think  that  there  are  no  women  on  earth 
to  equal  them,"  said  Pryor  to  me,  deep  in  a  pre- 
arranged conversation.  "They  have  a  grace  of 
their  own  and  a  coyness  which  I  admire.  I  don't 
think  that  any  women  are  like  the  women  of 
France." 

"  'Oo?"  asked  Bill  Teake,  sitting  down  on  the 
floor. 

"Pat  and  I  are  talking  about  the  French  girls," 
said  Pryor.     "They're  splendid." 

"H'm!"  grunted  Bill  in  a  colourless  voice. 

"Not  much  humbug  about  them,"  I  remarked. 

"I  prefer  English  gals,"  said  Bill.  "They  can 
make  a  joke  and  take  one.  As  for  the  French 
gals,  ugh !" 

"But  they're  not  all  alike,"  I  said.  "Some  may 
resent  advances  in  the  street,  and  show  a  temper 
when  they're  kissed  over  a  pump." 

"The  water  from  the  Les  Brebis  pumps  is  very 
cold,"  said  Pryor. 

We  could  not  see  Bill's  face  in  the  darkness, 
but  we  could  almost  feel  our  companion  squirm. 

"'Ave  yer  got  some  champagne,  Pryor?"  he 
asked  with  studied  indifference.  "My  f  roat's  like 
sandpaper." 


Before  the  Charge  63 

"Plenty  of  champagne,  matey,"  said  Pryor  in 
a  repentant  voice.  "We're  all  going  to  get  drunk 
to-night.    Are  you?" 

"Course  I  am,"  said  Bill.  "It's  very  comfy  to 
'ave  a  drop  of  champagne." 

"More  comfy  than  a  kiss  even,"  said  Pryor. 

As  he  spoke  the  door  was  shoved  inwards  and 
our  corporal  entered.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
there  without  speaking,  his  long,  lank  form  darkly 
outlined  against  the  half  light. 

"Well,  corporal?"  said  Pryor  interrogatively. 

"Why  don't  you  light  a  candle  ?"  asked  the  cor- 
poral. "I  thought  that  we  were  going  to  get  one 
another's  addresses." 

"So  we  were,"  I  said,  as  if  just  remembering  a 
decision  arrived  at  a  few  hours  previously.  But 
I  had  it  in  my  mind  all  the  time. 

Bill  lit  a  candle  and  placed  it  on  the  floor  while 
I  covered  up  the  window  with  a  ground  sheet. 
The  window  looked  out  on  the  firing  line  three 
kilometres  away,  and  the  light,  if  uncovered, 
might  be  seen  by  the  enemy.  I  glanced  down  the 
street  and  saw  boys  in  khaki  strolling  aimlessly 
about,  their  cigarettes  glowing.  .  .  .  The  star- 
shells  rose  in  the  sky  out  behind  Bully-Grenay, 


64  The  Great  Push 

and  again  I  had  that  feeling  of  the  enemy's  pres- 
ence which  was  mine  a  few  moments  before. 

Kore,  another  of  our  section,  returned  from  a 
neighbouring  cafe,  a  thoughtful  look  in  his  dark 
eyes  and  a  certain  irresolution  in  his  movements. 
His  delicate  nostrils  and  pale  lips  quivered  nerv- 
ously, betraying  doubt  and  a  little  fear  of  the 
work  ahead  at  dawn.  Under  his  arm  he  carried 
a  bottle  of  champagne  which  he  placed  on  the 
floor  beside  the  candle.  Sighing  a  little,  he  lay 
down  at  full  length  on  the  floor,  not  before  he 
brushed  the  dust  aside  with  a  newspaper.  Kore 
was  very  neat  and  took  great  pride  in  his  uniform, 
which  fitted  him  like  an  eyelid. 

Felan  and  M'Crone  came  in  together,  arm  in 
arm.  The  latter  was  in  a  state  of  subdued  excite- 
ment ;  his  whole  body  shook  as  if  he  were  in  fever ; 
when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  highly  pitched  and 
unnatural,  a  sign  that  he  was  under  the  strain 
of  great  nervous  tension.  Felan  looked  very 
much  at  ease,  though  now  and  again  he  fumbled 
with  the  pockets  of  his  tunic,  buttoning  and  un- 
buttoning the  flaps  and  digging  his  hands  into 
his  pockets  as  if  for  something  which  was  not 
there.    He  had  no  cause  for  alarm;  he  was  the 


Before  the  Charge  65 

company  cook  and,  according  to  regulations, 
would  not  cross  in  the  charge. 

"Blimey!  you're  not  'arf  a  lucky  dawg!"  said 
Bill,  glancing  at  Felan.  "I  wish  I  was  the  cook 
to-morrow." 

"I  almost  wish  I  was  myself." 

"Wot  dyer  mean?" 

"Do  you  expect  an  Irishman  is  going  to  cook 
bully-beef  when  his  regiment  goes  over  the  top?" 
asked  Felan.    "For  shame !" 

We  rose,  all  of  us,  shook  him  solemnly  by  the 
hand,  and  wished  him  luck. 

"Now,  what  about  the  addresses  ?"  asked  Kore. 
"It's  time  we  wrote  them  down." 

"It's  as  well  to  get  it  over,"  I  said,  but  no  one 
stirred.  We  viewed  the  job  with  distrust.  By 
doing  it  we  reconciled  ourselves  to  a  dread  in- 
evitable; the  writing  of  these  addresses  seemed 
to  be  the  only  thing  that  stood  between  us  and 
death.  If  we  could  only  put  it  off  for  another 
little  while.  .  .  . 

"We'll  'ave  a  drink  to  'elp  us,"  said  Bill,  and  a 
cork  went  plonk !  The  bottle  was  handed  round, 
and  each  of  us,  except  the  corporal,  drank  in  turn 


66  TKe  Great  PusK 

until  the  bottle  was  emptied.  The  corporal  was1 
a  teetotaller. 

"Now  we'll  begin,"  I  said.    The  wine  had  given 

me  strength.     "If  I'm  killed  write  to and 

I ,  tell  them  that  my  death  was  sudden — easy." 

"That's  the  thing  to  tell  them,"  said  the  cor- 
poral. "It's  always  best  to  tell  them  at  home 
that  death  was  sudden  and  painless.  It's  not 
much  of  a  consolation,  but " 

He  paused. 

"It's  the  only  thing  one  can  do,"  said  Felan. 

"I've  nobody  to  write  to,"  said  Pryor,  when 

his  turn  came.    "There's  a  Miss .    But  what 

the  devil  does  it  matter!  I've  nobody  to  write 
to,  nobody  that  cares  a  damn  what  becomes  of 
me,"  he  concluded.  "At  least  I'm  not  like  Bill," 
he  added. 

"And  who  will  I  write  to  for  you,  Bill?"  I 
asked. 

Bill  scratched  his  little  white  potato  of  a  nose, 
puckered  his  lips,  and  became  thoughtful.  I  sud- 
denly realised  that  Bill  was  very  dear  to  me. 

"Not  afraid,  matey?"  I  asked. 

"Naw,"  he  answered  in  a  thoughtful  voice. 


Before  the  Charge  67 

"A  man  has  only  to  die  once,  anyhow,"  said 
Felan. 

"Greedy!  'Ow  many  times  d'yer  want  ter 
die?"  asked  Bill.  "But  I  s'pose  if  a  man  'ad  nine 
lives  like  a  cat  'e  wouldn't  mind  dyin'  once." 

"But  suppose,"  said  Pryor. 

"S'pose,"  muttered  Bill.  "Well,  if  it  'as  got 
to  be  it  can't  be  'elped.  .  .  .  I'm  not  goin'  to  give 
any  address  to  anybody,"  he  said.  "I'm  goin'  to 
'ave  a  drink." 

We  were  all  seated  on  the  floor  round  the  can- 
dle which  was  stuck  in  the  neck  of  an  empty  cham- 
pagne bottle.  The  candle  flickered  faintly,  and 
the  light  made  feeble  fight  with  the  shadows  in 
the  corners.  The  room  was  full  of  the  aromatic 
flavour  of  Turkish  cigarettes  and  choice  cigars, 
for  money  was  spent  that  evening  with  the  reck- 
lessness of  men  going  out  to  die.  Teake  handed 
round  a  fresh  bottle  of  champagne  and  I  gulped 
down  a  mighty  mouthful.  My  shadow,  flung  by 
the  candle  on  the  white  wall,  was  a  grotesque 
caricature,  my  nose  stretched  out  like  a  beak,  and 
a  monstrous  bottle  was  tilted  on  demoniac  lips. 
Pryor  pointed  at  it  with  his  trigger  finger, 
laughed,  and  rose  to  give  a  quotation  from  Omar, 


68  The  Great  Push 

forgot  the  quotation,  and  sat  down  again.  Kore 
was  giving  his  home  address  to  the  corporal,  Bill's 
hand  trembled  as  he  raised  a  match  to  his  cigar.; 
Pryor  was  on  his  feet  again,  handsome  Pryor, 
with  a  college  education. 

"What  does  death  matter?"  he  said.  "It's  as 
natural  to  die  as  it  is  to  be  born,  and  perhaps 
the  former  is  the  easier  event  of  the  two.  We 
have  no  remembrance  of  birth  and  will  carry  no 
remembrance  of  death  across  the  bourne  from 
which  there  is  no  return.  Do  you  know  what 
Epictetus  said  about  death,  Bill?" 

"Wot  regiment  was  'e  in?"  asked  Bill. 

"He  has  been  dead  for  some  eighteen  hundred 
years." 

"Oh !  blimey !" 

"Epictetus  said,  'Where  death  is  I  am  not, 
where  death  is  not  I  am,'  "  Pryor  continued. 
"Death  will  give  us  all  a  clean  sheet.  If  the  ser- 
geant who  issues  short  rum  rations  dies  on  the 
field  of  honour  (don't  drink  all  the  champagne, 
Bill)  we'll  talk  of  him  when  he's  gone  as  a 
damned  good  fellow,  but  alive  we've  got  to  bor- 
row epithets  from  Bill's  vocabulary  of  vitupera- 


Before  the  Charge  69 

"tion  to  speak  of  the  aforesaid  non-commissioned 
abomination." 

"Is  'e  callin'  me  names,  Pat?"  Bill  asked  me. 

I  did  not  answer  for  the  moment,  for  Bill  was 
undergoing  a  strange  transformation.  His  head 
was  increasing  in  size,  swelling  up  until  it  al- 
most filled  the  entire  room.  His  little  potato  of 
a  nose  assumed  fantastic  dimensions.  The  other 
occupants  of  the  room  diminished  in  bulk  and  re- 
ceded into  far  distances.  I  tried  to  attract  Pry- 
or's  attention  to  the  phenomenon,  but  the  youth 
receding  with  the  others  was  now  balancing  a 
champagne  bottle  on  his  nose,  entirely  oblivious 
of  his  surroundings. 

"Be  quiet,  Bill,"  I  said,  speaking  with  difficulty. 
"Hold  your  tongue !" 

I  began  to  feel  drowsy,  but  another  mouthful 
Of  champagne  renewed  vitality  in  my  body.  With 
this  feeling  came  a  certain  indifference  towards 
the  morrow.  I  must  confess  that  up  to  now  I 
had  a  vague  distrust  of  my  actions  in  the  work 
ahead.  My  normal  self  revolted  at  the  thought 
of  the  coming  dawn;  the  experiences  of  my  life 
had  not  prepared  me  for  one  day  of  savage  and 
ruthless  butchery.    To-morrow  I  had  to  go  forth 


70  The  Great  Push 

prepared  to  do  much  that  I  disliked.  ...  I  had 
another  sip  of  wine;  we  were  at  the  last  bottle 
now. 

Pryor  looked  out  of  the  window,  raising  the 
blind  so  that  little  light  shone  out  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

"A  Scottish  division  are  passing  through  the 
street,  in  silence,  their  kilts  swinging,"  he  said. 
"My  God!  it  does  look  fine."  He  arranged  the 
blind  again  and  sat  down.  Bill  was  cutting  a  sul- 
tana cake  in  neat  portions  and  handing  them 
round. 

"Come,  Felan,  and  sing  a  song,"  said  M'Crone, 

"My  voice  is  no  good  now,"  said  Felan,  but 
by  his  way  of  speaking,  we  knew  that  he  would 
oblige. 

"Now,  Felan,  come  along !"  we  chorused. 

Felan  wiped  his  lips  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
took  a  cigar  between  his  fingers  and  thumb  and 
put  it  out  by  rubbing  the  lighted  end  against  his 
trousers.  Then  he  placed  the  cigar  behind  his 
ear. 

"Well,  what  will  I  sing?"  he  asked. 

"Any  damned  thing,"  said  Bill. 


Before  the  Charge  71 

"'The  Trumpeter/  and  we'll  all  help,"  said 
Kore. 

Felan  leant  against  the  wall,  thrust  his  head 
back,  closed  his  eyes,  stuck  the  thumb  of  his  right 
hand  into  a  buttonhole  of  his  tunic  and  began 
his  song. 

His  voice,  rather  hoarse,  but  very  pleasant,  fal- 
tered a  little  at  first,  but  was  gradually  perme- 
ated by  a  note  of  deepest  feeling,  and  a  strange, 
unwonted  passion  surged  through  the  melody. 
Felan  was  pouring  his  soul  into  the  song.  A  mo- 
ment ago  the  singer  was  one  with  us;  now  he 
gave  himself  up  to  the  song,  and  the  whole  lonely 
romance  of  war,  its  pity  and  its  pain,  swept 
through  the  building  and  held  us  in  its  spell. 
Kore's  mobile  nostrils  quivered.  M'Crone  shook 
as  if  with  ague.  We  all  listened,  enraptured,  our 
eyes  shut  as  the  singer's  were,  to  the  voice  that 
quivered  through  the  smoky  room.  I  could  not 
help  feeling  that  Felan  himself  listened  to  his 
own  song,  as  something  which  was  no  part  of 
him,  but  which  affected  him  strangely. 

"Trumpeter,  what  are  you  sounding  now? 
Is  it  the  call  I'm  seeking?' 
'Lucky  for  you  if  you  hear  it  all 
For  my  trumpet's  but  faintly  speaking — 


72  The  Great  Push 

I'm  calling  'em  home.    Come  home  !    Come  home ! 
Tread  light  o'er  the  dead  in  the  valley, 
Who  are  lying  around 
Face  down  to  the  ground, 
And  they  can't  hear ' " 

Felan  broke  down  suddenly,  and,  coming  across 
the  floor,  he  entered  the  circle  and  sat  down. 

"  'Twas  too  high  for  me,"  he  muttered  huskily. 
"My  voice  has  gone  to  the  dogs.  .  .  .  One 
time " 

Then  he  relapsed  into  silence.  None  of  us 
spoke,  but  we  were  aware  that  Felan  knew  how, 
much  his  song  had  moved  us. 

"Have  another  drink,"  said  Pryor  suddenly, 
in  a  thick  voice.  "  'Look  not  upon  the  wine  when 
it  is  red,'  "  he  quoted.  "But  there'll  be  something 
redder  than  wine  to-morrow !" 

"I  wish  we  fought  wiv  bladders  on  sticks;  it 
would  be  more  to  my  taste,"  said  Bill  Teake. 

"Ye're  not  having  a  drop  at  all,  corporal,"  said 
M'Crone.    "Have  a  sup;  it's  grand  stuff." 

The  corporal  shook  his  head.  He  sat  on  the 
floor  with  his  back  against  the  wall,  his  hands 
under  his  thighs.  He  had  a  blunt  nose  with  wide 
nostrils,  and  his  grey,  contemplative  eyes  kept 
roving  slowly  round  the  circle  as  if  he  were  puz- 


Before  the  Charge  73 

zling  over  our  fate  in  the  charge  to-morrow. 

"I  don't  drink,"  he  said.  "If  I  can't  do  without 
it  now  after  keeping  off  it  so  long,  I'm  not  much 
good." 

"Yer  don't  know  wot's  good  for  yer,"  said  Bill, 
gazing  regretfully  at  the  last  half -bottle. 
"There's  nuffink  like  fizz.  My  ole  man's  a  devil 
fer  'is  suds;  so'm  I." 

The  conversation  became  riotous,  questions  and 
replies  got  mixed  and  jumbled.  "I  suppose  we'll 
get  to  the  front  trench  anyhow ;  maybe  to  the  sec- 
ond. But  we'll  get  flung  back  from  that."  "WisK 
we'd  another  bloomin'  bottle  of  fizz."  "S'pose 
our  guns  will  not  lift  their  range  quick  enough 
when  we  advance.  We'll  have  any  amount  of 
casualties  with  our  own  shells."  "The  sergeant 
says  that  our  objective  is  the  crucifix  in  Loos 
churchyard."  "Imagine  killing  men  right  up  to 
the  foot  of  the  Cross."  .  .  . 

Our  red-headed  platoon  sergeant  appeared  at: 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  his  hair  lurid  in  the  candle 

light. 

"Enjoying  yourselves,  boys?"  he  asked,  witH 
paternal  solicitude.  The  sergeant's  heart  was  in 
his  platoon. 


74  TKe  Great  PusH 


<( 


'Avin'  a  bit  of  a  frisky,"  said  Bill.  "Will  yer 
'ave  a  drop?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  the  sergeant.  He  spoke 
almost  in  a  whisper,  and  something  seemed  to  be 
gripping  at  his  throat. 

He  put  the  bottle  to  his  lips  and  paused  for  a 
moment. 

"Good  luck  to  us  all !"  he  said,  and  drank. 

"We're  due  to  leave  in  fifteen  minutes,"  he  told 
us.  "Be  ready  when  you  hear  the  whistle  blown 
in  the  street.  Have  a  smoke  now,  for  no  pipes 
or  cigarettes  are  to  be  lit  on  the  march." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  then,  wiping  his 
moustache  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  he  clattered 
downstairs. 

The  night  wras  calm  and  full  of  enchantment. 
The  sky  hung  low  and  was  covered  witl\  a  grey- 
ish haze.  We  marched  past  Les  Brebis  Church 
up  a  long  street  where  most  of  the  houses  were 
levelled  to  the  ground.  Ahead  the  star-shells  ri- 
oted in  a  blaze  of  colour,  and  a  few  rifles  were 
snapping  viciously  out  by  Hohenzollern  Redoubt, 
and  a  building  on  fire  flared  lurid  against  the  east- 
ern sky.  Apart  from  that  silence  and  suspense, 
the  world  waited  breathlessly   for  some  great 


Before  the  CHarge  75 

event.  The  big  guns  lurked  on  their  emplace- 
ments, and  now  and  again  we  passed  a  dark-blue 
muzzle  peeping  out  from  its  cover,  sentinel,  as 
it  seemed,  over  the  neatly  piled  stack  of  shells 
which  would  furnish  it  with  its  feed  at  dawn. 

At  the  fringe  of  Bully-Grenay  we  left  the  road 
and  followed  a  straggling  path  across  the  level 
fields  where  telephone  wires  had  fallen  down  and 
lay  in  wait  to  trip  unwary  feet.  Always  the  whis- 
pers were  coming  down  the  line:  "Mind  the 
wires !"  "Mind  the  shell-holes !"  "Gunpit  on  the 
left.  Keep  clear."  "Mind  the  dead  mule  on  the 
right,"  etc. 

Again  we  got  to  the  road  where  it  runs  into 
the  village  of  Maroc.  A  church  stood  at  the 
entrance  and  it  was  in  a  wonderful  state  of  pres- 
ervation. Just  as  we  halted  for  a  moment  on  the 
roadway  the  enemy  sent  a  solitary  shell  across 
which  struck  the  steeple  squarely,  turning  it 
I  round,  but  failing  to  overthrow  it. 

"A  damned  good  shot,"  said  Pryor  approv- 
ingly. 


CHAPTER  V 

OVER   THE  TOP 

Was  it  only  yesterday 
Lusty  comrades  marched  away? 
Now  they're  covered  up  with  clay. 
Hearty  comrades  these  have  been, 
But  no  more  will  they  be  seen 
Drinking  wine  at  Nouex-les-Mines. 

A  BRAZIER  glowed  on  the  floor  of  the 
trench  and  I  saw  fantastic  figures  in  the 
red  blaze;  the  interior  of  a  vast  church 
lit  up  with  a  myriad  candles,  and  dark  figures 
kneeling  in  prayer  in  front  of  their  plaster  saints. 
fThe  edifice  was  an  enchanted  Fairyland,  a  poem 
of  striking  contrasts  in  light  and  shade.  I  peered 
over  the  top.  The  air  blazed  with  star-shells,  and 
Loos  in  front  stood  out  like  a  splendid  dawn. 
'A  row  of  impassive  faces,  sleep-heavy  they 
looked,  lined  our  parapet ;  bayonets,  silver-spired, 
stood  up  over  the  sandbags;  the  dark  bays,  the 
recessed  dug-outs  with  their  khaki-clad  occupants 
dimly  defined  in  the  light  of  little  candles  took 
on  fantastic  shapes.    From  the  North  Sea  to  the 

76 


Over  tHe  Top  77 

Alps  stretched  a  line  of  men  who  could,  if  they  so 
desired,  clasp  one  another's  hands  all  the  way 
along.  A  joke  which  makes  men  laugh  at  Ypres 
at  dawn  may  be  told  on  sentry-go  at  Souchez  by 
dusk,  and  the  laugh  which  accompanies  it  ripples 
through  the  long,  deep  trenches  of  Cuinchy,  the 
breastworks  of  Richebourg  and  the  chalk  alleys 
of  Vermelles  until  it  breaks  itself  like  a  summer; 
wave  against  the  traverse  where  England  ends 
and  France  begins. 

Many  of  our  men  were  asleep,  and  maybe 
dreaming.  What  were  their  dreams?  ...  I 
could  hear  faint,  indescribable  rustlings  as  the 
winds  loitered  across  the  levels  in  front;  a  light 
shrapnel  shell  burst,  and  its  smoke  quivered  in 
the  radiant  light  of  the  star-shells.  Showers  and 
sparks  fell  from  high  up  and  died  away  as  they 
fell.  Like  lives  of  men,  I  thought,  and  again  that 
feeling  of  proximity  to  the  enemy  surged  through 
me. 

A  boy  came  along  the  trench  carrying  a  foot- 
ball under  his  arm.  ''What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  that?"  I  asked. 

"It's  some  idea,  this,"  he  said  with  a  laugh'. 


78  The  Great  Push 


"We're  going  to  kick  it  across  into  the  German 
■trench." 

"It  is  some  idea,"  I  said.  "What  are  our 
chances  of  victory  in  the  game?" 

"The  playing  will  tell,"  he  answered  enigmati- 
cally. "It's  about  four  o'clock  now,"  he  added, 
paused  and  became  thoughtful.  The  mention  of 
the  hour  suggested  something  to  him.  .  .  . 

I  could  now  hear  the  scattered  crackling  of 
guns  as  they  called  to  one  another  saying :  "It's 
time  to  be  up  and  doing!"  The  brazen  monsters 
of  many  a  secret  emplacement  were  registering 
their  range,  rivalry  in  their  voices.  For  a  little 
the  cock-crowing  of  artillery  went  on,  then  sud- 
denly a  thousand  roosts  became  alive  and  voluble, 
each  losing  its  own  particular  sound  as  all  united 
in  one  grand  concert  of  fury.  The  orchestra  of 
.war  swelled  in  an  incessant  fanfare  of  dizzy  har-« 
mony.  Floating,  stuttering,  whistling,  screaming 
and  thundering  the  clamorous  voices  belched  into 
a  rich  gamut  of  passion  which  shook  the  grey 
heavens.  The  sharp,  zigzagging  sounds  of  high 
velocity  shells  cut  through  the  pandemonium  like 
forked  lightning,  and  far  away,  as  it  seemed, 
sounding  like  a  distant  breakwater  the  big  mis- 


Over  the  Top  79 

siles  from  caterpillar  howitzers  lumbered  through 
the  higher  deeps  of  the  sky.  The  brazen  lips  of 
death  cajoled,  threatened,  whispered,  whistled, 
laughed  and  sung :  here  were  the  sinister  and  sul- 
len voices  of  destruction,  the  sublime  and  stupen- 
dous paean  of  power  intermixed  in  sonorous 
clamour  and  magnificent  vibration. 

Felan  came  out  into  the  trench.  He  had  been 
asleep  in  his  dug-out.  "I  can't  make  tea  now," 
he  said,  fumbling  with  his  mess-tin.  "We'll  soon 
have  to  get  over  the  top.  Murdagh,  Nobby  Byrne 
and  Corporal  Clancy  are  here,"  he  remarked. 

"They  are  in  hospital,"  I  said. 

"They  were,"  said  Felan;  "but  the  hospitals 
have  been  cleared  out  to  make  room  for  men 
wounded  in  the  charge.  The  three  boys  were 
ordered  to  go  further  back  to  be  out  of  the  way, 
but  they  asked  to  be  allowed  to  join  in  the  charge, 
and  they  are  here  now." 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  "Good  luck  to  you, 
Pat,"  he  said  with  a  strange  catch  in  his  voice. 
"I  hope  you  get  through  all  right." 

A  heavy  rifle  fire  was  opened  by  the  Germans 
and  the  bullets  snapped  viciously  at  our  sand- 
bags.    Such  little  things  bullets  seemed  in  the 


8o  The  Great  Push 

midst  of  all  the  pandemonium !  But  bigger  stuff 
was  coming.  Twenty  yards  away  a  shell  dropped 
on  a  dug-out  and  sandbags  and  occupants  whirled 
up  in  mid-air.  The  call  for  stretcher-bearers 
came  to  my  bay,  and  I  rushed  round  the  traverse 
towards  the  spot  where  help  was  required  accom- 
panied by  two  others.  A  shrapnel  shell  burst 
overhead  and  the  man  in  front  of  me  fell.  I 
bent  to  lift  him,  but  he  stumbled  to  his  feet.  The 
concussion  had  knocked  him  down ;  he  was  little 
the  worse  for  his  accident,  but  he  felt  a  bit 
shaken.  The  other  stretcher-bearer  was  bleed- 
ing at  the  cheek  and  temple,  and  I  took  him  back 
to  a  sound  dug-out  and  dressed  his  wound.  He 
was  in  great  pain,  but  very  brave,  and  when 
another  stricken  boy  came  in  he  set  about  dress- 
ing him.  I  went  outside  into  the  trench.  A  per- 
fect hurricane  of  shells  was  coming  across,  con- 
cussion shells  that  whirled  the  sandbags  broad- 
cast  and  shrapnel  that  burst  high  in  air  and  shot 
their  freight  to  earth  with  resistless  precipitancy; 
bombs  whirled  in  air  and  burst  when  they  found 
earth  with  an  ear-splitting  clatter.  "Out  in  the 
open!"  I  muttered  and  tried  not  to  think  too 


Over  the  Top  81 

clearly  of  what  would  happen  when  we  got  out 
there. 

It  was  now  grey  day,  hazy  and  moist,  and 
the  thick  clouds  of  pale  yellow  smoke  curled  high 
in  space  and  curtained  the  dawn  off  from  the 
scene  of  war.  The  word  was  passed  along. 
"London  Irish  lead  on  to  assembly  trench." 
The  assembly  trench  was  in  front,  and  there  the 
scaling  ladders  were  placed  against  the  parapet, 
ready  steps  to  death,  as  someone  remarked.  I 
had  a  view  of  the  men  swarming  up  the  ladders 
when  I  got  there,  their  bayonets  held  in  steady 
hands,  and  at  a  little  distance  off  a  football  swing- 
ing by  its  whang  from  a  bayonet  standard. 

The  company  were  soon  out  in  the  open  march- 
ing forward.  The  enemy's  guns  were  busy,  and 
the  rifle  and  maxim  bullets  ripped  the  sandbags. 
The  infantry  fire  was  wild  but  of  slight  intensity. 
The  enemy  could  not  see  the  attacking  party. 
But,  judging  by  the  row,  it  was  hard  to  think  that 
men  could  weather  the  leaden  storm  in  the  open. 

The  big  guns  were  not  so  vehement  now,  our 
artillery  had  no  doubt  played  havoc  with  the  hos- 
tile batteries.  ...  I  went  to  the  foot  of  a  ladder 
and  got  hold  of  a  rung.    A  soldier  in  front  was 


82  The  Great  PusK 

clambering  across.  Suddenly  he  dropped  back- 
wards and  bore  me  to  the  ground;  the  bullet 
caught  him  in  the  forehead.  I  got  to  my  feet  to 
find  a  stranger  in  grey  uniform  coming  down  the 
ladder.  He  reached  the  floor  of  the  trench,  put 
up  his  hands  when  I  looked  at  him  and  cried  in 
a  weak,  imploring  voice,  "Kamerad!  Kamerad!" 

"A  German!"  I  said  to  my  mate. 

"H'm!  h'm!"  he  answered. 

I  flung  my  stretcher  over  the  parapet,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  my  comrade  stretcher-bearer,  I  clam- 
bered up  the  ladder  and  went  over  the  top. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ACROSS  THE  OPEN 

"The  firefly  lamps  were  lighted  yet, 
As  we  crossed  the  top  of  the  parapet, 
But  the  East  grew  pale  to  another  fire, 
As  our  bayonets  gleamed  by  the  foeman's  wire. 
And  the  Eastern  sky  was  gold  and  grey, 
And  under  our  feet  the  dead  men  lay, 
As  we  entered  Loos  in  the  morning." 

THE  moment  had  come  when  it  was  un- 
wise to  think.  The  country  round  Loos 
was  like  a  sponge;  the  god  of  war  had 
stamped  with  his  foot  on  it,  and  thousands  of 
men,  armed,  ready  to  kill,  were  squirted  out  on 
to  the  level,  barren  fields  of  danger.  To  dwell 
for  a  moment  on  the  novel  position  of  being 
standing  where  a  thousand  deaths  swept  by,  mis- 
sing you  by  a  mere  hair's  breadth,  would  be  sheer 
folly.  There  on  the  open  field  of  death  my  life 
was  out  of  my  keeping,  but  the  sensation  of  fear 
never  entered  my  being.  There  was  so  much 
simplicity  and  so  little  effort  in  doing  what  I 

had  done,  in  doing  what  eight  hundred  comrades 

83 


84  The  Great  Push 

had  done,  that  I  felt  I  could  carry  through  the 
work  before  me  with  as  much  credit  as  my  code 
of  self  respect  required.  The  maxims  went 
crackle  like  dry  brushwood  under  the  feet  of  a 
marching  host.  A  bullet  passed  very  close  to  my 
face  like  a  sharp,  sudden  breath ;  a  second  hit  the 
ground  in  front,  flicked  up  a  little  shower  of  dust, 
and  ricochetted  to  the  left,  hitting  the  earth  many 
times  before  it  fqund  a  resting  place.  The  air 
was  vicious  with  bullets ;  a  million  invisible  birds 
flicked  their  wings  very  close  to  my  face.  Ahead 
the  clouds  of  smoke,  sluggish  low-lying  fog,  and 
fumes  of  bursting  shells,  thick  in  volume,  receded 
towards  the  German  trenches,  and  formed  a  strik- 
ing background  for  the  soldiers  who  were  march- 
ing up  a  low  slope  towards  the  enemy's  parapet, 
which  the  smoke  still  hid  from  view.  There  was 
no  haste  in  the  forward  move,  every  step  was 
taken  with  regimental  precision,  and  twice  on  the 
way  across  the  Irish  boys  halted  for  a  moment 
to  correct  their  alignment.  Only  at  a  point  on 
the  right  there  was  some  confusion  and  a  little 
irregularity.  Were  the  men  wavering?  No  fear! 
The  boys  on  the  right  were  dribbling  the  elusive 
football  towards  the  German  trench. 


Across  the  Open  85 

Raising  the  stretcher,  my  mate  and  I  went  for- 
ward. For  the  next  few  minutes  I  was  conscious 
of  many  things.  A  slight  rain  was  falling;  the 
smoke  and  fumes  I  saw  had  drifted  back,  expos- 
ing a  dark  streak  on  the  field  of  green,  the 
enemy's  trench.  A  little  distance  away  from  me 
three  men  hurried  forward,  and  two  of  them 
carried  a  box  of  rifle  ammunition.  One  of  the 
bearers  fell  flat  to  earth,  his  two  mates  halted 
for  a  moment,  looked  at  the  stricken  boy,  and 
seemed  to  puzzle  at  something.  Then  they  caught 
hold  of  the  box  hangers  and  rushed  forward. 
The  man  on  the  ground  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow  and  looked  after  his  mates ;  then  sank  down 
again  to  the  wet  ground.  Another  soldier  came 
crawling  towards  us  on  his  belly,  looking  for  all 
the  world  like  a  gigantic  lobster  which  had  es- 
caped from  its  basket.  His  lower  lip  was  cut 
clean  to  the  chin  and  hanging  apart ;  blood  welled 
through  the  muddy  khaki  trousers  where  they 
covered  the  hips. 

I  recognised  the  fellow. 

"Much  hurt,  matey?"  I  asked. 

"I'll  manage  to  get  in,"  he  said. 

"Shall  I  put  a  dressing  on  ?"  I  inquired. 


86  The  Great  PusK 

"I'll  manage  to  get  into  our  own  trench,"  he 
stammered,    spitting   the   blood    from   his    lips. 

"There  are  others  out  at  the  wires.     S has 

caught  it  bad.    Try  and  get  him  in,  Pat." 

"Right,  old  man,"  I  said,  as  he  crawled  off. 
'"Good  luck." 

My  cap  was  blown  off  my  head  as  if  by  a  vio- 
lent gust  of  wind,  and  it  dropped  on  the  ground. 
I  put  it  on  again,  and  at  that  moment  a  shell 
burst  near  at  hand  and  a  dozen  splinters  sung 
by  my  ear.    I  walked  forward  with  a  steady  step. 

"What  took  my  cap  off?"  I  asked  myself.  "It 
went  away  just  as  if  it  was  caught  in  a  breeze. 
God!"  I  muttered,  in  a  burst  of  realisation,  "it 
was  that  shell  passing."  I  breathed  very  deeply, 
my  blood  rushed  down  to  my  toes  and  an  airy 
sensation  filled  my  body.  Then  the  stretcher 
dragged. 

"Lift  the  damned  thing  up,"  I  called  to  my 
mate  over  my  shoulder.  There  was  no  reply.  I 
looked  round  to  find  him  gone,  either  mixed  up 
in  a  whooping  rush  of  kilted  Highlanders,  who 
had  lost  their  objective  and  were  now  charging 
parallel  to  their  own  trench,  or  perhaps  he  got 
killed.  ...  How  strange  that  the  Highlanders 


Across  the  Open  87 

could  not  charge  in  silence,  I  thought,  and  then 
recollected  that  most  of  my  boyhood  friends, 
Donegal  lads,  were  in  Scottish  regiments.  ...  I 
placed  my  stretcher  on  my  shoulder,  walked  for- 
ward towards  a  bank  of  smoke  which  seemed  to 
be  standing  stationary,  and  came  across  our  pla- 
toon sergeant  and  part  of  his  company. 

"Are  we  going  wrong,  or  are  the  Jocks 
wrong?"  he  asked  his  men,  then  shouted,  "Lie 
flat,  boys,  for  a  minute,  until  we  see  where  we 
are.  There's  a  big  crucifix  in  Loos  churchyard, 
and  we've  got  to  draw  on  that." 

The  men  threw  themselves  flat;  the  sergeant 
went  down  on  one  knee  and  leant  forward  on  his 
rifle,  his  hands  on  the  bayonet  standard,  the  fin- 
gers pointing  upwards  and  the  palms  pressed 
close  to  the  sword  which  was  covered  with  rust. 
w  .  .  How  hard  it  would  be  to  draw  it  from  a 
dead  body!  .  .  .  The  sergeant  seemed  to  be 
kneeling  in  prayer.  ,.  ,.  ,.  In  front  the  cloud 
cleared  away,  and  the  black  crucifix  standing 
over  the  graves  of  Loos  became  revealed. 

"Advance,  boys!"  said  the  sergeant.  "Steady 
on  to  the  foot  of  the  Cross  and  rip  the  swine  out 
of  their  trenches." 


88  The  Great  PusH 

The  Irish  went  forward.  .   .   . 

A  boy  sat  on  the  ground  bleeding  at  the  shoul- 
der and  knee. 

"You've  got  hit,"  I  said. 

"In  a  few  places,"  he  answered,  in  a  very  mat- 
ter-of-fact voice.  "I  want  to  get  into  a  shell- 
hole." 

"I'll  try  and  get  you  into  one,"  I  said.  "But 
I  want  someone  to  help  me.  Hi !  you  there !  Come 
and  give  me  a  hand." 

I  spoke  to  a  man  who  sat  on  the  rim  of  a 
crater  near  at  hand.  His  eyes,  set  close  in  a 
white,  ghastly  face,  stared  tensely  at  me.  He  sat 
in  a  crouching  position,  his  head  thrust  forward, 
his  right  hand  gripping  tightly  at  a  mud-stained 
rifle.  Presumably  he  was  a  bit  shaken  and  was 
afraid  to  advance  further. 

"Help  me  to  get  this  fellow  into  a  shell-hole," 
I  called.    "He  can't  move." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Come  along,"  I  cried,  and  then  it  was  sud- 
denly borne  to  me  that  the  man  was  dead.  I 
dragged  the  wounded  boy  into  the  crater  and 
dressed  his  wounds. 


Across  the  Open  89 

A  shell  struck  the  ground  in  front,  burrowed, 
and  failed  to  explode. 

"Thank  Heaven!"  I  muttered,  and  hurried 
ahead.  Men  and  pieces  of  men  were  lying  all 
over  the  place.  A  leg,  an  arm,  then  again  a  leg, 
cut  off  at  the  hip.  A  finely  formed  leg,  the  latter, 
gracefully  putteed.  A  dummy  leg  in  a  tailor's 
window  could  not  be  more  graceful.  It  might  be 
X;  he  was  an  artist  in  dress,  a  Beau  Brummel  in 
khaki.  Fifty  yards  further  along  I  found  the 
rest  of  X.  .  .  . 

The  harrowing  sight  was  repellent,  antagonis- 
tic to  my  mind.  The  tortured  things  lying  at 
my  feet  were  symbols  of  insecurity,  ominous  re- 
minders of  danger  from  which  no  discretion 
could  save  a  man.  My  soul  was  barren  of  pity; 
fear  went  down  into  the  innermost  parts  of  me, 
fear  for  myself.  The  dead  and  dying  lay  all 
around  me;  I  felt  a  vague  obligation  to  the  lat- 
ter; they  must  be  carried  out.  But  why  should 
I  trouble!  Where  could  I  begin?  Everything 
was  so  far  apart.  I  was  too  puny  to  start  my 
labours  in  such  a  derelict  world.  The  difficulty 
of  accommodating  myself  to  an  old  task  under 
new  conditions  was  enormous. 


90  The  Great  Push 

A  figure  in  grey,  a  massive  block  of  Bavarian 
bone  and  muscle,  came  running  towards  me,  his 
arms  in  air,  and  Bill  Teake  following  him  with  a 
long  bayonet. 

"A  prisoner!"  yelled  the  boy  on  seeing  me. 
"  'Kamerad!  Kamerad!'  'e  shouted  when  I  came 
up.  Blimey!  I  couldn't  stab  'im,  so  I  took  'im 
prisoner.  It's  not  'arf  a  barney!  .  .  .  'Ave  yer 
got  a  fag  ter  spare?" 

The  Cockney  came  to  a  halt,  reached  for  a 
cigarette,  and  lit  it. 

The  German  stood  still,  panting  like  a  dog. 

"Double !  Fritz,  double !"  shouted  the  boy,  send- 
ing a  little  puff  of  smoke  through  his  nose.  "Over 
to  our  trench  you  go!  Grease  along  if  yer  don't 
want  a  bayonet  in  your !" 

They  rushed  off,  the  German  with  hands  in  air, 
and  Bill  behind  with  his  bayonet  perilously  close 
to  the  prisoner.  There  was  something  amus- 
ing in  the  incident,  and  I  could  not  refrain  from 
laughing.  Then  I  got  a  whiff  from  a  German 
gas-bomb  which  exploded  near  me,  and  I  began 
spluttering  and  coughing.  The  irritation,  only 
momentary,  was  succeeded  by  a  strange  humour. 
1  felt  as  if  walking  on  air,  my  head  got  light, 


Across  the  Open  91 

and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  kept  my  feet  on 
earth.  It  would  be  so  easy  to  rise  into  space  and 
float  away.  The  sensation  was  a  delightful  one; 
I  felt  so  pleased  with  myself,  with  everything. 
A  wounded  man  lay  on  the  ground,  clawing  the 
earth  with  frenzied  ringers.  In  a  vague  way,  I 
remembered  some  ancient  law  which  ordained  me 
to  assist  a  stricken  man.  But  I  could  not  do  so 
now,  the  action  would  clog  my  buoyancy  and  that 
delightful  feeling  of  freedom  which  permeated 
my  being.  Another  soldier  whom  I  recognised, 
even  at  a  distance,  by  his  pink-and-white  bald 
pate,  so  often  a  subject  for  our  jokes,  reeled  over 
the  blood-stained  earth,  his  eyes  almost  bursting 
from  their  sockets. 

"You  look  bad,"  I  said  to  him  with  a  smile. 

He  stared  at  me  drunkenly,  but  did  not  an- 
swer. 

A  man,  mother-naked,  raced  round  in  a  circle, 
laughing  boisterously.  The  rags  that  would  class 
him  as  a  friend  or  foe  were  gone,  and  I  could 
not  tell  whether  he  was  an  Englishman  or  a 
German.  As  I  watched  him  an  impartial  bullet 
went  through  his  forehead,  and  he  fell  headlong 


92  The  Great  Push 

to  the  earth.  The  sight  sobered  me  and  I  re- 
gained my  normal  self. 

Up  near  the  German  wire  I  found  our  Com- 
pany postman  sitting  in  a  shell-hole,  a  bullet  in 
his  leg  below  the  knee,  and  an  unlighted  cigarette 
in  his  mouth. 

"You're  the  man  I  want,"  he  shouted,  on  seeing 
me.  And  I  fumbled  in  my  haversack  for  band- 
ages. 

"No  dressing  for  me,  yet,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 
"There  are  others  needing  help  more  than  I. 
What  I  want  is  a  match." 

As  I  handed  him  my  match  box  a  big  high  ex- 
plosive shell  flew  over  our  heads  and  dropped 
fifty  yards  away  in  a  little  hollow  where  seven 
or  eight  figures  in  khaki  lay  prostrate,  faces  to 
the  ground.  The  shell  burst  and  the  wounded 
and  dead  rose  slowly  into  air  to  a  height  of  six 
or  seven  yards  and  dropped  slowly  again,  look- 
ing for  all  the  world  like  puppets  worked  by 
wires. 

"This,"  said  the  postman,  who  had  observed 
the  incident,  "is  a  solution  of  a  question  which 
diplomacy  could  not  settle,  I  suppose.  The  last 
argument  of  kings  is  a  damned  sorry  business." 


Across  the  Open  93 

By  the  German  barbed  wire  entanglements 
were  the  shambles  of  war.  Here  our  men  were 
seen  by  the  enemy  for  the  first  time  that  morn- 
ing. Up  till  then  the  foe  had  fired  erratically 
through  the  oncoming  curtain  of  smoke;  but 
when  the  cloud  cleared  away,  the  attackers  were 
seen  advancing,  picking  their  way  through  the 
wires  which  had  been  cut  to  little  pieces  by  our 
bombardment.  The  Irish  were  now  met  with  har- 
rying rifle  fire,  deadly  petrol  bombs  and  hand 
grenades.  Here  I  came  across  dead,  dying  and 
sorely  wounded;  lives  maimed  and  finished,  and 
all  the  romance  and  roving  that  makes  up  the  life 
of  a  soldier  gone  for  ever.  Here,  too,  I  saw, 
bullet-riddled,  against  one  of  the  spider  webs 
known  as  chevaux  de  frise,  a  limp  lump  of  pliable 
leather,  the  football  which  the  boys  had  kicked 
across  the  field. 

I  came  across  Flannery  lying  close  to  a  barbed 
wire  support,  one  arm  round  it  as  if  in  embrace. 
He  was  a  clumsily  built  fellow,  with  queer  bushy 
eyebrows  and  a  short,  squat  nose.  His  bearing 
was  never  soldierly,  but  on  a  march  he  could  bear 
any  burden  and  stick  the  job  when  more  alert 
men  fell  out.    He  always  bore  himself  however 


94  The  Great  PusK 

with  a  certain  grace,  due,  perhaps,  to  a  placid 
belief  in  his  own  strength.  He  never  made 
friends ;  a  being  apart,  he  led  a  solitary  life.  Now 
he  lay  close  to  earth  hugging  an  entanglement 
prop,  and  dying. 

There  was  something  savage  in  the  expression 
of  his  face  as  he  looked  slowly  round,  like  an  ox 
under  a  yoke,  on  my  approach.  I  knelt  down  be- 
side him  and  cut  his  tunic  with  my  scissors  where 
a  burnt  hole  clotted  with  blood  showed  under  the 
kidney.  A  splinter  of  shell  had  torn  part  of  the 
man's  side  away.  All  hope  was  lost  for  the  poor 
soul. 

"In  much  pain,  chummy?"  I  asked. 

"Ah,  Christ!  yes,  Pat,"  he  answered.  "Wife 
and  two  kiddies,  too.  Are  we  getting  the  best 
of  it?" 

I  did  not  know  how  the  fight  was  progressing, 
but  I  had  seen  a  line  of  bayonets  drawing  near  to 
the  second  trench  out  by  Loos. 

"Winning  all  along,"  I  answered. 

"That's  good,"  he  said.  "Is  there  any  hope 
[for  me?" 

"Of  course  there  is,  matey,"  I  lied.  "You  have 
two  of  these  morphia  tablets  and  lie  quiet.    We'll 


Across  the  Open  95 

take  you  in  after  a  while,  and  you'll  be  back  in 
England  in  two  or  three  days'  time." 

I  placed  the  morphia  under  his  tongue  and 
he  closed  his  eyes  as  if  going  to  sleep.  Then, 
with  an  effort,  he  tried  to  get  up  and  gripped  the 
wire  support  with  such  vigour  that  it  came  clean 
out  of  the  ground.  His  legs  shot  out  from  under 
him,  and,  muttering  something  about  rations  be- 
ing fit  for  pigs  and  not  for  men,  he  fell  back  and 
died. 

The  fighting  was  not  over  in  the  front  trench 
yet,  the  first  two  companies  had  gone  ahead,  the 
other  two  companies  were  taking  possession  here. 
A  sturdy  Bavarian  in  shirt  and  pants  was  stand- 
ing on  a  banquette  with  his  bayonet  over  the 
parapet,  and  a  determined  look  in  his  eyes.  He 
had  already  done  for  two  of  our  men  as  they 
tried  to  cross,  but  now  his  rifle  seemed  to  be  un- 
loaded and  he  waited.  Standing  there  amidst 
his  dead  countrymen  he  formed  a  striking  figure. 
A  bullet  from  one  of  our  rifles  would  have  ended 
his  career  speedily,  but  no  one  seemed  to  want 
to  fire  that  shot.  There  was  a  moment  of  sus- 
pense, broken  only  when  the  monstrous  futility 
of  resistance  became  apparent  to  him,  and  he 


96  The  Great  Push 

threw  down  his  rifle  and  put  up  his  hands,  shout- 
ing- "Kamerad!  kamerad!"  I  don't  know  what 
became  of  him  afterwards,  other  events  claimed 
my  attention. 

Four  boys  rushed  up,  panting  under  the  ma- 
chine gun  and  ammunition  belts  which  they  car- 
ried. One  got  hit  and  fell  to  the  ground,  the 
maxim  tripod  which  he  carried  fell  on  top  of  him. 
The  remainder  of  the  party  came  to  a  halt. 

"Lift  the  tripod  and  come  along,"  his  mates 
shouted  to  one  another. 

"Who's  goin'  to  carry  it?"  asked  a  little  fellow 
with  a  box  of  ammunition. 

"You,"  came  the  answer. 

"Some  other  one  must  carry  it,"  said  the  little 
fellow.    "I've  the  heaviest  burden." 

"You've  not,"  one  answered.  "Get  the  blurry 
thing  on  your  shoulder." 

"Blurry  yourself!"  said  the  little  fellow. 
"Someone  else  carry  the  thing.  Marney  can 
carry  it." 

"I'm  not  a  damned  fool!"  said  Marney.  "It 
can  stick  there  'fore  I  take  it  across." 

"Not  much  good  goin'  over  without  it,"  said 
the  little  fellow. 


Across  tHe  Open  97 

I  left  them  there  wrangling:  the  extra  weight 
would  have  made  no  appreciable  difference  to 
any  of  them. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  how  the  events  of  the 
morning  had  changed  the  nature  of  the  boys. 
Mild-mannered  youths  who  had  spent  their  work- 
ing hours  of  civil  life  in  scratching  with  inky 
pens  on  white  paper,  and  their  hours  of  relaxa- 
tion in  cutting  capers  on  roller  skates  and  helping 
dainty  maidens  to  teas  and  ices,  became  possessed 
of  mad  Berserker  rage  and  ungovernable  fury. 
Now  that  their  work  was  war  the  bloodstained 
bayonet  gave  them  play  in  which  they  seemed  to 
glory. 

"Here's  one  that  I've  just  done  in,"  I  heard 
M'Crone  shout,  looking  approvingly  at  a  dead 
German.    "That's  five  of  the  bloody  swine  now." 

M'Crone's  mother  never  sends  her  son  any 
money  lest  he  gets  into  the  evil  habit  of  smoking 
cigarettes.  He  is  of  a  religious  turn  of  mind  and 
delights  in  singing  hymns,  his  favourite  being, 
"There  is  a  green  hill  far  away."  I  never  heard 
him  swear  before,  but  at  Loos  his  language 
would  make  a  navvy  in  a  Saturday  night  taproom 
green  with  envy.     M'Crone  was  not  lacking  in 


98  The  Great  Push 

courage.  I  have  seen  him  wait  for  death  with' 
untroubled  front  in  a  shell-harried  trench,  and 
now,  inflicting  pain  on  others,  he  was  a  fiend  per- 
sonified; such  transformations  are  of  common  oc- 
currence on  the  field  of  honour. 

The  German  trench  had  suffered  severely 
from  our  fire;  parapets  were  blown  in,  and  at 
places  the  trench  was  full  to  the  level  of  the 
ground  with  sandbags  and  earth.  Wreckage  was 
strewn  all  over  the  place,  rifles,  twisted  distor- 
tions of  shapeless  metal,  caught  by  high-velocity 
shells,  machine  guns  smashed  to  atoms,  bomb- 
proof shelters  broken  to  pieces  like  houses  of 
cards ;  giants  had  been  at  work  of  destruction  in 
a  delicately  fashioned  nursery. 

On  the  reverse  slope  of  the  parapet  broken  tins, 
rusty  swords,  muddy  equipments,  wicked-looking 
coils  of  barbed  wire,  and  discarded  articles  of 
clothing  were  scattered  about  pell-mell.  I  noticed 
an  unexploded  shell  perched  on  a  sandbag,  cock- 
ing a  perky  nose  in  air,  and  beside  it  was  a  bat- 
tered helmet,  the  brass  glory  of  its  regal  eagle 
dimmed  with  trench  mud  and  wrecked  with  many 
a  bullet.  .   .   . 

I  had  a  clear  personal  impression  of  man's 


Across  the  Open  99 

ingenuity  for  destruction  when  my  eyes  looked 
on  the  German  front  line  where  our  dead  lay  in 
peace  with  their  fallen  enemies  on  the  parapet. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  trench  the  dead  lay  thick, 
and  our  boys,  engaged  in  building  a  new  parapet, 
were  heaping  the  sandbags  on  the  dead  men  and 
consolidating  the  captured  position. 


CHAPTER  VII 

GERMANS  AT  LOOS 

"Some'ow  a  dyin'  Alleymong  don't  seem  a  real  Alleymong; 
you  ain't  able  to  'ate  'im  as  you  ought." — Bill  Teake's 
Philosophy. 

FROM  the  day  I  left  England  up  till  the 
dawn  of  September  25th  I  never  met  a 
German,  and  I  had  spent  seven  months  in 
France.  At  night  when  out  on  working-parties 
I  saw  figures  moving  out  by  the  enemy  trenches, 
mere  shadows  that  came  into  view  when  an 
ephemeral  constellation  of  star-shells  held  the 
heavens.  We  never  fired  at  these  shadows,  and 
they  never  fired  at  us;  it  is  unwise  to  break  the 
I  tacit  truces  of  the  trenches.  The  first  real  live 
German  I  saw  was  the  one  who  blundered  down 
the  ladder  into  'our  trench,  the  second  raced  to- 
wards our  trenches  with  Bill  Teake  following  at 
his  heels,  uttering  threats  and  vowing  that  he 
would  stab  the  prisoner  if  he  did  not  double  in 
a  manner  approved  of  by  the  most  exacting  ser- 
geant-major. 

100 


Germans  at  Loos  101 

Of  those  who  are  England's  enemies  I  know, 
even  now,  very  little.  I  cannot  well  pass  judg- 
ment on  a  nation  through  seeing  distorted  lumps 
of  clotting  and  mangled  flesh  pounded  into  the 
muddy  floor  of  a  trench,  or  strewn  broadcast  on 
%he  reverse  slopes  of  a  shell-scarred  parapet.  The 
enemy  suffered  as  we  did,  yelled  with  pain  when 
his  wounds  prompted  him,  forgot  perhaps  in  the 
insane  combat  some  of  the  nicer  tenets  of  chivalry. 
After  all,  war  is  an  approved  licence  for  broth- 
erly mutilation,  its  aims  are  sanctioned,  only  the 
means  towards  its  end  are  disputed.  It  is  a  sad 
and  sorry  business  from  start  to  finish,  from 
diplomacy  that  begets  it  to  the  Te  Deums  that 
rise  to  God  in  thanksgiving  for  victory  obtained. 

In  the  first  German  trench  there  were  dozens 
of  dead,  the  trench  was  literally  piled  with  life- 
less bodies  in  ugly  grey  uniforms.  Curiosity 
prompted  me  to  look  into  the  famous  German 
dug-outs.  They  were  remarkable  constructions, 
caves  leading  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  some 
of  them  capable  of  holding  a  whole  platoon  of 
soldiers.  These  big  dug-outs  had  stairs  leading 
down  to  the  main  chamber  and  steps  leading  out. 
In  one  I  counted  forty-seven  steps  leading  down 


102  The  Great  Push 

from  the  floor  of  the  trench  to  the  roof  of  the 
shelter.  No  shell  made  was  capable  of  piercing 
these  constructions,  but  a  bomb  flung  down- 
stairs. .   .   . 

•)  I  looked  into  a  pretentious  dug-out  as  I  was 
going  along  the  trench.  This  one,  the  floor  of 
which  was  barely  two  feet  below  the  level  of 
the  trench  floor,  must  have  been  an  officer's.  It 
was  sumptuously  furnished,  a  curtained  bed  with 
a  white  coverlet  stood  in  one  corner.  Near  the 
door  was  a  stove  and  a  scuttle  of  coal.  In  an- 
other corner  stood  a  table,  and  on  it  was  a  half 
bottle  of  wine,  three  glasses,  a  box  of  cigars,  and 
a  vase  of  flowers.  These  things  I  noticed  later; 
what  I  saw  first  on  entering  was  a  wounded  Ger- 
man lying  across  the  bed,  his  head  against  the 
wall  and  his  feet  on  the  floor.  His  right  arm  wag 
almost  severed  at  the  shoulder. 

I  entered  and  gazed  at  him.  There  was  2L 
look  of  mute  appeal  in  his  eyes,  and  for  some 
reason  I  felt  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  in- 
truded on  the  privacy  of  a  dying  man.  There 
come  times  when  a  man  on  the  field  of  battle 
should  be  left  alone  to  his  own  thoughts.  I  un- 
loosened my  water-bottle  from  its  holder  and 


Germans  at  Loos  103 

by  sign  inquired  if  he  wanted  a  drink.  He 
nodded,  and  I  placed  the  bottle  to  his  lips. 

"Sprechen  Anglais?"  I  inquired,  and  he  shook 
his  head. 

I  took  my  bottle  of  morphia  tablets  from  my 
pocket  and  explained  to  him  as  well  as  I  was 
able  what  the  bottle  contained,  and  he  permitted 
me  to  place  two  under  his  tongue.  When  rum- 
maging in  my  pocket  I  happened  to  bring  out 
my  rosary  beads  and  he  noticed  them.  He  spoke 
and  I  guessed  that  he  was  inquiring  if  I  was  a 
Catholic. 

I  nodded  assent. 

He  fumbled  with  his  left  hand  in  his  tunic 
pocket  and  brought  out  a  little  mudstained  book- 
let and  handed  it  to  me.  I  noticed  that  the 
volume  was  a  prayer-book.  By  his  signs  I  con- 
cluded that  he  wanted  me  to  keep  it. 

I  turned  to  leave,  but  he  called  me  back  and 
pointed  to  his  trousers  pocket  as  if  he  wanted 
me  to  bring  something  out  of  it.  I  put  in  my 
hand  and  drew  out  a  little  leather  packet  from 
which  the  muzzle  of  a  revolver  peeped  forth. 
This  I  put  in  my  pocket.  He  feared  that  if  some 
of  our  men  found  this  in  his  possession  his  life 


104  The  Great  PusK 

might  be  a  few  hours  shorter  than  it  really  would 
be  if  he  were  left  to  die  in  peace.  I  could  see 
that  he  required  me  to  do  something  further  for 
him.  Raising  his  left  hand  with  difficult  (I  now 
!saw  that  blood  was  flowing  down  the  wrist)  he 
pointed  at  his  tunic  pocket,  and  I  put  my  hand 
in  there.  A  clasp-knife,  a  few  buttons,  a  piece 
of  string  and  a  photo  were  all  that  the  pocket 
contained.  The  photograph  showed  a  man, 
whom  I  saw  was  the  soldier,  a  woman  and  a 
little  child  seated  at  a  table.  I  put  it  in  his  hand, 
and  with  brilliant  eyes  and  set  teeth  he  raised  his 
head  to  look  at  it.  .   .   . 

I  went  outside.  M'Crone  was  coming  along" 
the  trench  with  a  bomb  in  his  hand. 

"Any  of  them  in  that  dug-out?"  he  asked  me, 

"One,"  I  replied. 

"Then  I'll  give  him  this,"  M'Crone  shouted. 
His  gestures  were  violent,  and  his  indifference 
to  personal  danger  as  shown  in  his  loud  laughter 
was  somewhat  exaggerated.  As  long  as  he  had 
something  to  do  he  was  all  right,  but  a  moment's 
thought  would  crumple  him  up  like  a  wet  rag. 

"I've  done  in  seven  of  them  already,"  he 
shouted. 


Germans  at  Loos  105 

"The  one  in  here  is  dying,"  I  said.  "Leave  him 
alone." 

M'Crone  went  to  the  dug-out  door,  looked  curi- 
ously in,  then  walked  away. 

Behind  the  German  trench  I  found  one  of 
our  boys  slowly  recovering  from  an  attack  of 
gas.  Beside  him  lay  a  revolver,  a  mere  toy  of 
a  thing,  and  touching  him  was  a  German  with! 
a  bullet  in  his  temple.  The  boy  told  me  an  in- 
teresting story  as  I  propped  him  up  in  a  sitting 
position  against  a  couple  of  discarded  equip- 
ments. 

*I  tripped  up,  and  over  I  went,"  he  said.  "I 
came  to  slowly,  and  was  conscious  of  many- 
things  'fore  I  had  the  power  to  move  my  hands 
or  feet.  What  do  you  think  was  happenin'? 
There  was  a  bloomin'  German  sniper  under  cover 
pottin'  at  our  boys,  and  that  cover  was  a  bundle 
of  warm,  livin'  flesh;  the  blighter's  cover  was  me! 
'If  I  get  my  hand  in  my  pocket,'  I  says  to  myself, 
Til  get  my  revolver  and  blow  the  beggar's  brains 
out.'  " 

"Blow  out  his  brains  with  that!"  I  said,  look- 
ing at  the  weapon.  "You  might  as  well  try  to 
blow  out  his  brains  with  a  pinch  of  snuff  I" 


io6  The  Great  Push 

"That's  all  you  know!"  said  the  boy.  "Any- 
way, I  got  my  hand  into  my  pocket,  it  crawled  in 
like  a  snake,  and  I  got  the  little  pet  out.  And 
the  German  was  pot-pottin'  all  the  time.  Then 
I  fetched  the  weapon  up,  stuck  the  muzzle  plunk < 
against  the  man's  head  and  pulled  the  trigger 
twice.  He  didn't  half  kick  up  a  row.  See  if 
the  two  bullets  have  gone  through  one  hole,  Pat." 

"They  have,"  I  told  him. 

"I  knew  it,"  he  answered.  "Ah!  it's  an  easy 
job  to  kill  a  man.  You  just  rush  at  him  and  you 
see  his  eyes  and  nothin'  else.  There's  a  mist 
over  the  trench.  You  shove  your  bayonet  for- 
ward and  its  sticks  in  something  soft  and  almost 
gets  dragged  out  of  your  hands.  Then  you  get 
annoyed  because  you  can't  pull  it  back  easy. 
That's  all  that  happens  and  you've  killed  a  man. 
[.  ..  .  How  much  water  have  you  got?" 

A  German  youth  of  seventeen  or  eighteen  with 
a  magnificent  helmet  on  his  head  and  a  red  cross 
on  his  arm  was  working  in  the  centre  of  a  square 
Iformed  by  four  of  his  dead  countrymen,  digging 
a  grave.  The  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead, 
and  from  time  to  time  he  cast  an  uneasy  glance 
about  him. 


1 

Germans  at  Loos  107 


vn 


'What  are  you  doing  there?"  I  asked. 

"Digging  a  grave  for  these,"  he  said,  in  good 
English,  pointing  a  shaky  finger  at  the  prostrate 
figures.  "I  suppose  I'll  be  put  in  it  myself,"  he 
added. 

"Why?"  I  inquired. 

"Oh!  you  English  shoot  all  prisoners." 

"You're  a  fool,  Fritz,"  said  M'Crone,  ap- 
proaching him.  "We're  not  going  to  do  you  any 
harm.    Look,  I've  brought  you  something  to  eat." 

He  handed  the  boy  a  piece  of  cake,  but  the 
young  Bavarian  shook  his  head.  He  was  trem- 
bling with  terror,  and  the  shovel  shook  in  his 
hands.  Fifteen  minutes  later  when  I  passed  that 
way  carrying  in  a  wounded  man,  I  saw  M'Crone 
and  the  young  Bavarian  sitting  on  the  brink  of 
the  grave  smoking  cigarettes  and  laughing  heart- 
ily over  some  joke. 

Prisoners  were  going  down  towards  M » 

across  the  open.  Prisoners  are  always  taken 
across  the  open  in  bulk  with  as  small  an  escort 
as  possible.  I  saw  a  mob  of  two  hundred  go 
along,  their  hands  in  the  air,  and  stern  Tommies 
marching  on  flank  and  at  rear.  The  party  was  & 
mixed  one.    Some  of  the  prisoners  were  strong. 


108  The  Great  Push 

sturdy  youngsters  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  others 
were  old  men,  war-weary  and  dejected.  A  few 
were  thin,  weedy  creatures,  but  others  were  mas- 
sive blocks  of  bone  and  muscle,  well  set-up  and 
brimful  of  energy  even  in  their  degrading  plight. 

Now  and  again  queer  assortments  of  these 
came  along.  One  man  was  taken  prisoner  in 
a  cellar  on  the  outskirts  of  Loos.  Our  men  dis- 
covered him  asleep  in  a  bed,  pulled  him  out  and 
found  that  he  was  enjoying  a  decent,  civilised 

slumber.     He  came  down  to  M as  he  was 

taken  prisoner,  his  sole  clothing  being  a  pair  of 
stockings,  a  shirt  and  an  identity  disc.  Four  big 
Highlanders,  massive  of  shoulder  and  leg,  es- 
corted a  puny,  spectacled  youth  along  the  rim  of 
the  trench,  and  following  them  came  a  diminu- 
tive Cockney  with  a  massive  helmet  on  his  head, 
the  sole  escort  for  twelve  gigantic  Bavarian 
Grenadiers.  The  Cockney  had  now  only  one 
enemy,  he  was  the  man  who  offered  to  help  him 
at  his  work. 

I  came  across  a  crumpled  figure  of  a  man  in 
grey,  dead  in  a  shell-crater.  One  arm  was  bent 
under  him,  the  other  stretched  forward  almost 
touching  a  photograph  of  a  woman  and  three 


Germans  at  Loos  109 

little  children.     I  placed  the  photograph  under 
the  edge  of  the  man's  tunic. 

Near  him  lay  another  Bavarian,  an  old  man, 
deeply  wrinkled  and  white  haired,  and  wounded 
through  the  chest.  He  was  trembling  all  over 
like  a  wounded  bird,  but  his  eyes  were  calm  and 
they  looked  beyond  the  tumult  and  turmoil  of 
the  battlefield  into  some  secret  world  that  only 
the  dying  can  see.  A  rosary  was  in  the  man's 
hand  and  his  lips  were  mumbling  something:  he 
was  telling  his  beads.  He  took  no  notice  of  me. 
Across  the  level  at  this  point  came  a  large  party 
of  prisoners  amidst  a  storm  of  shells.  The  Ger- 
man gunners  had  shortened  their  range  and 
were  now  shelling  the  ground  occupied  by  their 
troops  an  hour  previous.  Callous,  indifferent  de- 
struction! The  oncoming  prisoners  were  Ger- 
mans— as  men  they  were  of  no  use  to  us ;  it  would 
cost  our  country  money  and  men  to  keep  and 
feed  them.  They  were  Germans,  but  of  no  fur- 
ther use  to  Germany;  they  were  her  pawns  in  a 
game  of  war  and  now  useless  in  the  play.  As 
if  to  illustrate  this,  a  shell  from  a  German  gun 
dropped  in  the  midst  of  the  batch  and  pieces  of 
the  abject  party  whirled  in  air.    The  gun  which 


I  io  The  Great  Push 

had  destroyed  them  had  acted  as  their  guardian 
for  months.  It  was  a  frantic  mother  slaying  her 
helpless  brood. 

The  stretcher-bearer  sees  all  the  horror  of  war 
written  in  blood  and  tears  on  the  shell-riven  bat- 
tlefield. The  wounded  man,  thank  heaven!  has 
only  his  own  pain  to  endure,  although  the  most 
extreme  agony  which  flesh  is  heir  to  is  written 
large  on  the  field  of  fight. 

Several  times  that  day  I  asked  myself  the  ques- 
tion, "Why  are  all  soldiers  not  allowed  to  carry 
morphia  ?"  How  much  pain  it  would  save !  How, 
many  pangs  of  pain  might  morphia  alleviate! 
How  often  would  it  give  that  rest  and  quiet 
which  a  man  requires  when  an  excited  heart  per- 
sists in  pumping  blood  out  through  an  open 
wound !  In  the  East  morphia  is  known  as  "The 
gift  of  God" ;  on  the  field  of  battle  the  gift  of  God 
should  not  be  denied  to  men  in  great  pain.  It 
would  be  well  indeed  if  all  soldiers  were  taught 
first  aid  before  a  sergeant-major  teaches  them  the 
art  of  forming  fours  on  the  parade  ground. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

HOW  MY  COMRADES  FARED 

Seven  supple  lads  and  clean 

Sat  down  to  drink  one  night, 
Sat  down  to  drink  at  Nouex-les-Mines, 

Then  went  away  to  fight. 

Seven  supple  lads  and  clean 

Are  finished  with  the  fight; 
But  only  three  at  Nouex-les-Mines 

Sit  down  to  drink  to-night. 

FELAN  went  up  the  ladder  of  the  assembly- 
trench  with  a  lighted  cigarette  in  his 
mouth.  Out  on  the  open  his  first  feeling 
was  one  of  disappointment;  to  start  with,  the 
charge  was  as  dull  as  a  church  parade.  Felan, 
although  orders  were  given  to  the  contrary,  ex- 
pected a  wild,  whooping  forward  rush,  but  the 
men  stepped  out  soberly,  with  the  pious  decision^ 
of  ancient  ladies  going  to  church.  In  front  the' 
curtain  of  smoke  receded,  but  the  air  stunk  with 
its  pungent  odour  still.  A  little  valley  formed 
by  the  caprice  of  the  breeze  opened  in  the  fumes 

and  its  far  end  disclosed  the  enemy's  wire  en- 

iii 


112  The  Great  Push 

tanglements.  Felan  walked  through  the  valley 
for  a  distance  of  five  yards,  then  he  glanced  to 
his  right  and  found  that  there  was  nobody  in 
sight  there.     Pryor  had  disappeared. 

"Here,  Bill,  we've  lost  connection!"  he  cried,1 
turning  to  his  left.  But  his  words  were  wasted 
on  air;  he  was  alone  in  his  little  glen,  and  invis- 
ible birds  flicked  angry  wings  close  to  his  ears. 
His  first  inclination  was  to  turn  back,  not 
through  fear,  but  with  a  desire  to  make  inquiries. 

"I  can't  take  a  trench  by  myself,"  he  muttered. 
"Shall  I  go  back?  If  I  do  so  some  may  call  me 
a  coward.    Oh,  damn  it!  I'll  go  forward." 

He  felt  afraid  now,  but  his  fear  was  not  that 
which  makes  a  man  run  away ;  he  was  attracted 
towards  that  which  engendered  the  fear  as  an 
urchin  attracted  towards  a  wasps'  nest  longs  to 
poke  the  hive  and  annoy  its  occupants. 

"Suppose  I  get  killed  now  and  see  nothing,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "Where  is  Bill,  and  Pryor,  and 
the  others?" 

He  reached  the  enemy's  wire,  tripped,  and  fell 
headlong.  He  got  to  his  feet  again  and  took 
stock  of  the  space  in  front.  There  was  the  Ger- 
man trench,  sure  enough,  with  its  rows  of  dirty 


How  My  Comrades  Fared      113 

sandbags,  a  machine-gun  emplacement  and  a 
maxim  peeping  furtively  through  the  loophole. 
A  big,  bearded  German  was  adjusting  the  range 
of  the  weapon.  He  looked  at  Felan,  Felan  looked 
at  him  and  tightened  his  grip  on  his  rifle. 

"You 1"  said  Felan,  and  just  made  one 

step  forward  when  something  "hit  him  all  over," 
as  he  said  afterwards.  He  dropped  out  of  the 
world  of  conscious  things. 

A  stretcher-bearer  found  him  some  twenty 
minutes  later  and  placed  him  in  a  shell-hole,  after 
removing  his  equipment,  which  he  placed  on  the 
rim  of  the  crater. 

Felan  returned  to  a  conscious  life  that  was 
tense  with  agony.  Pain  gripped  at  the  innermost 
parts  of  his  being.  "I  cannot  stand  this,"  he 
yelled.    "God  Almighty,  it's  hell !" 

He  felt  as  if  somebody  was  shoving  a  red-hot 
bar  of  iron  through  his  chest.  Unable  to  move, 
he  lay  still,  feeling  the  bar  getting  shoved  further 
and  further  in.  For  a  moment  he  had  a  glimpse 
of  his  rifle  lying  on  the  ground  near  him  and  he 
tried  to  reach  it.  But  the  unsuccessful  effort 
cost  him  much,  and  he  became  unconscious  again. 

A  shell  bursting  near  his  hand  shook  him  into 


H4  The  Great  Push 

reality,  and  splinters  whizzed  by  his  head.  He 
raised  himself  upwards,  hoping  to  get  killed 
outright.  He  was  unsuccessful.  Again  his  eyes 
rested  on  his  rifle. 

"If  God  would  give  me  strength  to  get  it  into 
my  hand,"  'he  muttered.  "Lying  here  like  a  rat 
in  a  trap  and  I've  seen  nothing.  Not  a  run  for 
my  money.  ...  I  suppose  all  the  boys  are  dead. 
Lucky  fellows  if  they  die  easy.  .  .  .  I've  seen 
nothing  only  one  German,  and  he  done  for  me. 
I  wish  the  bullet  had  gone  through  my  head." 

He  looked  at  his  equipment,  at  the  bayonet 
scabbard  lying  limply  under  the  haversack.  The 
water-bottle  hung  over  the  rim  of  the  shell-hole. 
"Full  of  rum,  the  bottle  is,  and  I'm  so  dry.  I 
wish  I  could  get  hold  of  it.  I  was  a  damned  fool 
ever  to  join  the  Army.  .  .  .  My  God!  I  wish  I 
was  dead,"  said  Felan. 

The  minutes  passed  by  like  a  long  grey  thread 
unwinding  itself  slowly  from  some  invisible  ball, 
and  the  pain  bit  deeper  into  the  boy.  Vivid  re- 
membrances of  long-past  events  flashed  across 
his  mind  and  fled  away  like  telegraph  poles  seen 
by  passengers  in  an  express  train.  Then  he  lost 
consciousness  again. 


How  My  Comrades  Fared      115 

About  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  found  a 
stretcher-bearer  whose  mate  had  been  wounded, 
and  he  helped  me  to  carry  a  wounded  man  intc 
our  original  front  trench.  On  our  way  across  I 
heard  somebody  calling  "Pat!  Pat!"  I  looked 
round  and  saw  a  man  crawling  in  on  his  hands 
and  knees,  his  head  almost  touching  the  ground. 
He  called  to  me,  but  he  did  not  look  in  my  direc- 
tion. But  I  recognised  the  voice:  the  corporal 
was  calling.    I  went  across  to  him. 

"Wounded?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  Pat,"  he  answered,  and,  turning,  over, 
he  sat  down.    His  face  was  very  white. 

"You  should  not  have  crawled  in,"  I  muttered. 
"It's  only  wearing  you  out;  and  it's  not  very 
healthy  here." 

"Oh,  I  wanted  to  get  away  from  this  hell," 
he  said. 

"It's  very  foolish,"  I  replied.  "Let  me  see 
your  wound." 

I  dressed  the  wound  and  gave  the  corporal  two 
morphia  tablets  and  put  two  blue  crosses  on  his 
face.  This  would  tell  those  who  might  come  his 
way  later  that  morphia  had  been  given. 

"Lie  down,"  I  said.     "When  the  man  whom 


n6  The  Great  PusK 

we're  carrying  is  safely  in,  we'll  come  back  for 
you." 

I  left  him.  In  the  trench  were  many  wounded 
lying  on  the  floor  and  on  the  fire-steps.  A  soldier 
was  lying  face  downwards,  groaning.  A  muddy 
ground-sheet  was  placed  over  his  shoulders.  I 
raised  the  sheet  and  found  that  his  wound  was 
not  dressed. 

"Painful,  matey?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  it's  old  Pat,"  muttered  the  man. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  asked,  for  I  did  not  recog- 
nise the  voice. 

"You  don't  know  me !"  said  the  man,  surprise 
in  his  tones. 

He  turned  a  queer,  puckered  face  half  round, 
but  I  did  not  recognise  him  even  then ;  pain  had 
so  distorted  his  countenance. 

"No,"  I  replied.     "Who  are  you?" 

"Felan,"  he  replied. 

"My  God!"  I  cried,  then  hurriedly,  "I'll  dress 
your  wound.  You'll  get  carried  in  to  the  dress- 
ing-station directly." 

"It's  about  time,"  said  Felan  wearily.  "I've 
been  out  a  couple  of  days.  ...  Is  there  no 
R.A.M.C.?" 


How  My  Comrades  Fared      117 

I  dressed  Felan's  wound,  returned,  and  looked 
for  the  corporal,  but  I  could  not  find  him.  Some- 
one must  have  carried  him  in,  I  thought. 

Kore  had  got  to  the  German  barbed-wire  en- 
tanglement when  he  breathed  in  a  mouthful  of 
smoke  which  almost  choked  him  at  first,  and 
afterwards  instilled  him  with  a  certain  placid 
confidence  in  everything.  He  came  to  a  leisurely 
halt  and  looked  around  him.  In  front,  a  platoon 
of  the  20th  London  Regiment,  losing  its  objec- 
tive, crossed  parallel  to  the  enemy's  trench.  Then 
he  saw  a  youth  who  was  with  him  at  school,  and 
he  shouted  to  him.  The  youth  stopped;  Kore 
came  up  and  the  boys  shook  hands,  leant  on  their 
rifles,  and  began  to  talk  of  old  times  when  a  ma- 
chine gun  played  about  their  ears.  Both  got 
hit. 

M'Crone  disappeared;  he  was  never  seen  by 
any  of  his  regiment  after  the  25th. 

The  four  men  were  reported  as  killed  in  the 
casualty  list. 


CHAPTER   IX 

AT   LOOS 

"The  wages  of  sin  and  a   soldier   is   death." — Trench 
Proverb. 

FOR  long  I  had  looked  on  Loos  from  a  dis- 
tance, had  seen  the  red-brick  houses  hud- 
dled together  brooding  under  the  shade 
of  the  massive  Twin  Towers,  the  giant  sentinels 
of  the  German  stronghold.  Between  me  and  the 
village  lurked  a  thousand  rifles  and  death-deal- 
ing maxims;  out  in  the  open  no  understanding 
could  preserve  a  man  from  annihilation,  luck 
alone  could  save  him. 

On  September  25th  I  lived  in  the  village.  By- 
night  a  ruined  village  has  a  certain  character  of 
its  own,  the  demolition  of  war  seems  to  give  eacK 
broken  wall  a  consciousness  of  dignity  and 
worth;  the  moonlight  ripples  over  the  chimneys, 
and  sheaves  of  shadow  lurk  in  every  nook  and 
corner.     But  by  day,  with  its  broken,  jerry-built 

houses,  the  village  has  no  relieving  features,  it 

118 


At  Loos  119 

is  merely  a  heap  of  broken  bricks,  rubble  and 
mud.  Some  day,  when  ivy  and  lichen  grow  up 
the  walls  and  cover  green  the  litter  that  was 
Loos,  a  quaint,  historical  air  may  be  given  to 
the  scene,  but  now  it  showed  nothing  but  a  de- 
pressing sameness  of  latchless  doors,  hingeless 
shutters,  destruction  and  decay.  Gone  was  all 
the  fascinating,  pathetic  melancholy  of  the  night 
when  we  took  possession,  but  such  might  be  ex- 
pected: the  dead  is  out  of  keeping  with  the  day. 
I  was  deep  in  thought  as  I  stood  at  the  door 
of  the  dressing-station,  the  first  in  Loos,  and  at 
the  moment,  the  only  one.  The  second  German 
trench,  the  trench  that  was  the  enemy's  at  dawn, 
ran  across  the  bottom  of  the  street,  and  our  boys 
were  busy  there  heaping  sandbags  on  the  para- 
pet. A  dozen  men  with  loaded  rifles  stood  in 
the  dressing-station  on  guard,  and  watchful  eyes 
scanned  the  streets,  looking  for  the  enemy  who 
were  still  in  hiding  in  the  cellars  or  sniping  from 
the  upper  stories  of  houses  untouched  by  shell- 
fire.  Down  in  our  cellar  the  wounded  and  dying 
lay:  by  night,  if  they  lived  till  then,  we  would 
carry  them  across  the  open  to  the  dressing-sta- 
tion of  Maroc.    To  venture  across  now,  when  the 


120  The  Great  PusH 

big  guns  chorused  a  fanfare  of  fury  on  the  levels, 
would  have  been  madness. 

I  went  to  the  door  and  looked  up  the  street ;  it 
was  totally  deserted;  a  dead  mule  and  several 
khaki-clad  figures  lay  on  the  pavement,  and 
vicious  bullets  kicked  up  showers  of  sparks  on 
the  cobblestones.  I  could  not  tell  where  they 
were  fired  from.  ...  A  voice  called  my  name 
and  I  turned  round  to  see  a  head  peep  over  the 
trench  where  it  crossed  the  road.  My  mate,  Bill 
Teake,  was  speaking. 

"Come  'ere!"  he  called.  "There's  some  doin's 
goin'  to  take  place." 

I  rushed  across  the  open  road  where  a  machine 
gun  from  a  hill  on  the  right  was  sending  its  mes- 
sages with  shrewish  persistence,  and  tumbled  into 
the  trench  at  my  mate's  side. 

"What  are  the  doings?"  I  asked. 

"The  word  'as  been  passed  along  that  a  Ger- 
man observation  balloon  is  going  up  over  Lens 
an'  we're  goin'  to  shell  it,"  said  Bill. 

"I  can't  see  the  blurry  thing  nohow,"  he  added. 

I  looked  towards  Lens,  and  saw  the  town 
pencilled  reddish  in  the  morning  light  with  sev- 
eral defiant  chimney  stacks  standing  in  air.    One 


At  Loos  121 

of  these  was  smoking,  which  showed  that  the 
enemy  was  still  working  it. 

I  saw  the  balloon  rise  over  the  town.  It  was 
a  massive  banana-like  construction  with  ends 
pointing  downwards,  and  it  climbed  slowly  up 
the  heavens.  At  that  moment  our  gunners 
greeted  it  with  a  salvo  of  shrapnel  and  struck 
it,  as  far  as  I  could  judge. 

It  wriggled  for  a  moment,  like  a  big  feather 
caught  in  a  drift  of  air,  then  disappeared  with 
startling  suddenness. 

"A  neat  shot,"  I  said  to  Bill,  who  was  now 
engaged  on  the  task  of  looking  for  the  snappy 
maxim  shrew  that  tapped  impatiently  on  the 
sandbagged  parapet. 

"I  think  it's  up  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
crest  where  three  or  four  red-tiled  houses  snug- 
gled in  the  cover  of  a  spinney.  "It's  in  one  of 
them  big  'ouses,  bet  yer.  If  I  find  it  I'll  get  the 
artillery  to  blow  the  place  to  blazes!"  he  con- 
cluded, with  an  air  of  finality. 

I  went  back  to  the  dressing-station  and  found 
the  men  on  guard  in  a  state  of  tense  excitement. 
They  had  seen  a  German  cross  the  street  two 
hundred  yards  up,  and  a  red-haired  youth,  Gin- 


122  The  Great  Push 

ger  Turley,  who  had  fired  at  the  man,  vowed  that 
he  had  hit  him. 

"I  saw  'im  fall,"  said  Ginger.  "Then  'e 
crawled  into  a  'ouse  on  'ands  and  knees." 

"  'E  was  only  shammin',"  said  the  corporal  of 
the  guard.  "Nobody  can  be  up  to  these  'ere  Al- 
lemongs." 

"I  'it  'im,"  said  Ginger  heatedly.  "Couldn't 
miss  a  man  at  two  'undred  and  me  gettin'  pro- 
ficiency pay  for  good  shootin'  at  S'nalbans  (St. 
Albans)." 

A  man  at  the  door  suddenly  uttered  a  loud 
yell. 

"Get  yer  'ipes,"  he  yelled.  "Quick!  Grease 
out  of  it  and  get  into  the  scrap.  There's  'undreds 
of  'em  up  the  streets.  Come  on!  Come  out  of 
it !    We'll  give  the  swine  socks !" 

He  rushed  into  the  street,  raised  his  rifle  to 
his  shoulder  and  fired  two  rounds.  Then  he 
raced  up  the  street  shouting,  with  the  guard  fol- 
lowing.    I  looked  out. 

The  men  in  khaki  were  rushing  on  a  mob  of 
some  fifty  or  sixty  Germans  who  advanced  to 
meet  them  with  trembling  arms  raised  over  their 
heads,    signifying   in    their    manner    that   they 


At  Loos  123 

wished  to  surrender.  I  had  seen  many  Germans 
surrender  that  morning  and  always  noticed  that 
their  uplifted  arms  shook  as  if  stricken  with 
palsy.  I  suppose  they  feared  what  might  befall 
them  when  they  fell  into  our  hands. 

With  hands  still  in  air  and  escorted  by  our  boys 
they  filed  past  the  door  of  the  dressing-station. 
All  but  one  man,  who  was  wounded  in  the  jaw. 

"This  is  a  case  for  you,  Pat,"  said  the  corporal 
of  the  guard,  and  beckoned  to  the  wounded  Ger- 
man to  come  indoors. 

He  was  an  ungainly  man,  and  his  clothes  clung 
to  his  body  like  rags  to  a  scarecrow.  His  tunic 
was  ripped  in  several  places,  and  a  mountain  of 
Loos  mud  clung  to  his  trousers.  His  face  was 
an  interesting  one,  his  eyes,  blue  and  frank, 
seemed  full  of  preoccupation  that  put  death  out 
of  reckoning. 

"Sprechen  Anglais?"  I  asked,  floundering  in 
the  mud  of  Franco-Germaine  interrogation.  He 
shook  his  head;  the  bullet  had  blown  away  part 
of  the  man's  jaw  and  he  could  not  speak. 

I  dressed  his  wound  in  silence,  an  ugly,  ghastly 
wound  it  looked,  one  that  he  would  hardly  re- 
cover from.    As  I  worked  with  the  bandages  he 


124  The  Great  PusH 

brought  out  a  little  mirror,  gazed  for  a  moment 
at  his  face  in  the  glass,  and  shook  his  head  sadly. 
He  put  the  mirror  back  in  his  pocket,  but  after  a 
second  he  drew  it  out  again  and  made  a  second, 
inspection  of  his  wound. 

The  dressing  done,  I  inquired  by  signs  if  he 
wanted  to  sleep ;  there  was  still  some  room  in  the 
cellar.  He  pointed  his  finger  at  his  tunic  over 
the  breast  and  I  saw  a  hole  there  that  looked  as 
if  made  by  a  red-hot  poker.  I  cut  the  clothes  off 
the  man  with  my  scissors  and  discovered  that  the 
bullet  which  went  through  the  man's  jaw  had 
also  gone  through  his  chest.  He  was  bleeding 
freely  at  the  back  near  the  spine  and  in  front 
over  the  heart.  .  .  .  The  man  brought  out  his 
mirror  again,  and,  standing  with  his  back  to  a 
shattered  looking-glass  that  still  remained  in 
the  building,  he  examined  his  wound  after  the 
manner  of  a  barber  who  shows  his  customer  the 
back  of  his  head  by  use  of  a  mirror.  .  .  .  Again 
the  German  shook  his  head  sadly.  I  felt  sorry 
for  the  man.  My  stock  of  bandages  had  run 
short,  and  Ginger  Turley,  who  had  received  a 
parcel  of  underclothing  a  few  days  before, 
brought  out  a  new  shirt  from  his  haversack,  and 


At  Loos  125 

tearing  it  into  strips,  he  handed  me  sufficient 
cloth  for  a  bandage. 

"Poor  bloke!"  muttered  Turley,  blushing  a 
little  as  if  ashamed  of  the  kind  action.  "I  sup- 
pose it  was  my  shot,  too.  'E  must  be  the  feller 
that  went  crawlin'  into  the  buildin'." 

"Not  necessarily,"  I  said,  hoping  to  comfort 
Ginger. 

"It  was  my  shot  that  did  it,  sure  enough," 
Ginger  persisted.  "I  couldn't  miss  at  two  'un- 
dred  yards,  not  if  I  tried." 

One  of  the  men  was  looking  at  a  little  book, 
somewhat  similar  to  the  pay-book  we  carry  on 
active  service,  which  fell  from  the  German's 
pocket. 

"Bavarian!"  read  the  man  with  the  book,  and 
fixed  a  look  of  interrogation  on  the  wounded 
man,  who  nodded. 

"Musician?"  asked  the  man,  who  divined  that 
certain  German  words  stated  that  the  Bavarian 
was  a  musician  in  civil  life. 

A  sad  look  crept  into  the  prisoner's  eyes.  He 
raised  his  hands  and  held  them  a  little  distance 
from  his  lips  and  moved  his  fingers  rapidly ;  then 
he  curved  his  left  arm  and  drew  his  right  slowly 


126  The  Great  Push! 

backward  and  forward  across  in  front  of  his 
body. 

We  understood ;  he  played  the  flute  and  violin. 
Ginger  Turley  loves  ragtime  and  is  a  master  of 
the  mouth-organ ;  and  now  having  met  a  brother 
artist  in  such  a  woeful  plight,  Ginger's  feelings 
overcame  him,  and  two  tears  gathered  in  his 
eyes. 

"I  wish  I  wasn't  such  a  good  shot,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

We  wrapped  the  German  up  in  a  few  rags,  and 
since  he  wanted  to  follow  his  comrades,  who  left 
under  escort,  we  allowed  him  to  go.  Ten  min- 
utes later,  Bill  Teake  poked  his  little  white  potato 
of  a  nose  round  the  door. 

"I've  found  'im  out,"  he  said,  and  his  voice 
was  full  of  enthusiasm. 

"Who  have  you  found  out?"  I  asked. 

"That  bloomin'  machine  gun,"  Bill  answered. 
"I  saw  a  little  puff  of  smoke  at  one  of  the  win- 
ders of  a  'ouse  up  in  the  spinney.  I  kept  my  eye 
on  that  'ere  winder.  Ev'ry  time  I  seed  a  puff  of 
smoke,  over  comes  a  bullet.  I  told  the  officer, 
and  he  'phones  down  to  the  artillery.     There's 


rAt  Loos  127 

goin'  to  be  some  doin's.  Come  on,  Pat,  and  see 
the  fun." 

It  was  too  good  to  miss.  Both  of  us  scurried 
across  the  road  and  took  up  a  position  in  the 
trench  from  which  we  could  get  a  good  view  of 
the  spinney. 

"That  'ouse  there,"  said  Bill,  pointing  to  the 
red-brick  building  bordering  a  slag-heap  known 
as  "The  Double  Crassier"  which  tailed  to  a  thin 
point  near  the  village  of  Maroc.  "There !  see  at 
the  winder  on  the  left  a  puff  of  smoke." 

A  bullet  hit  the  sandbag  at  my  side.  I  looked 
at  the  house  indicated  by  Bill  and  saw  a  wisp  of 
pale  smoke  trail  up  from  one  of  the  lower  win- 
dows towards  the  roof. 

"The  machine  gun's  there,  sure  enough,"  I 
said. 

Then  a  bigger  gun  spoke;  a  shell  whizzed 
through  the  air  and  raised  a  cloud  of  black  dusl: 
from  the  rim  of  the  slag-heap. 

"More  to  the  left,  you  bounders,  more  to  the 
left!"  yelled  Bill. 

He  could  not  have  been  more  intent  on  the 
work  if  he  were  the  gunner  engaged  upon  the 
task  of  demolition. 


128  The  Great  Push 

The  second  shot  crept  nearer  and  a  shrub  up- 
rooted whirled  in  air. 

''That's  the  ticket!"  yelled  Bill,  clapping  his 
hands.  "Come,  gunner,  get  the  bounder  next 
time!" 

The  gunner  got  him  with  the  next  shot  which 
struck  the  building  fair  in  the  centre  and  smashed 
it  to  pieces. 

"That  was  a  damned  good  one,"  said  Bill  ap- 
provingly. "The  bloomin'  gun  is  out  of  action 
now  for  the  duration  of  war.  Have  you  seen 
that  bloke?" 

Bill  Teake  pointed  at  a  dead  German  who  lay 
on  the  crest  of  the  parados,  his  hands  doubled 
under  him,  and  his  jaw  bound  with  a  bloodstained 
dressing. 

"He  just  got  killed  a  minute  ago,"  said  Bill. 
"He  jumped  across  the  trench  when  the  machine 
gun  copped  'im  an  'e  went  down  flop !" 

"I've  just  dressed  his  wounds,"  I  said. 

"He'll  need  no  dressin'  now,"  said  Bill,  and 
added  compassionately,  "Poor  devil!  S'pose  'e 
*s  'ad  some  one  as  cared  for  'im." 

I  thought  of  home  and  hoped  to  send  a  letter 
along  to  Maroc  with  a  wounded  man  presently. 


At  Loos  129 

From  there  letters  would  be  forwarded.  I  had  a 
lead  pencil  in  my  pocket,  but  I  had  no  envelope. 

"I'll  give  you  a  half-franc  for  a  green  enve- 
lope," I  said,  and  Bill  Teake  took  from  his  pocket 
the  green  envelope,  which  needed  no  regimental 
censure,  but  was  liable  to  examination  at  the 
Base. 

"  'Arf-franc  and  five  fags,"  he  said,  speaking 
with  the  studied  indifference  of  a  fishwife  mak- 
ing a  bargain. 

"Half  a  franc  and  two  fags,"  I  answered. 

"  'Arf  a  franc  and  four  fags,"  he  said. 

"Three  fags,"  I  ventured. 

"Done,"  said  Bill,  and  added,  "I've  now  sold 
the  bloomin'  line  of  communication  between  my- 
self and  my  ole  man  for  a  few  coppers  and  three 
meesly  fags." 

"What's  your  old  man's  profession,  Bill?"  I 
asked. 

"•'Is  wot?" 

"His  trade?" 

"Yer  don't  know  my  ole  man,  Pat?"  he  in- 
quired. "Everybody  knows  'im.  'E  'as  as  good 
a  reputation  as  old  Times.  Yer  must  'ave  seen 
'im  in  the  Strand  wiv  'is  shiny  buttons,  burnished 


130  The  Great  PusK 

like  gold  in  a  jooler's  winder,  carryin'  a  board 
wiv  'Globe  Metal  Polish'  on  it." 

"Oh  I"  I  said  with  a  laugh. 

"But  'e's  a  devil  for  'is  suds  'e  is " 

"What  are  suds?"  I  asked. 

"Beer,"  said  Bill.  "  'E  can  'old  more'n  any 
man  in  Lunnon,  more'n  the  chucker-out  at  'The 

Cat  and  Mustard  Pot'  boozer  in  W Road 

even.  Yer  should  see  the  chucker-out  an'  my  ole 
man  comin'  'ome  on  Saturday  night.  They  keep 
themselves  steady  by  rollin'  in  opposite  direc- 
tions." 

"Men  with  good  reputations  don't  roll  home 
inebriated,"  I  said.  "Excessive  alcoholic  dissi- 
pation is  utterly  repugnant  to  dignified  human- 
ity." 

"Wot !" 

"Is  your  father  a  churchgoer  ?"  I  asked. 

"Not  'im,"  said  Bill.  "  'E  don't  believe  that 
one  can  go  to  'eaven  by  climbin'  up  a  church 
steeple.  'E's  a  good  man,  that's  wot  'e  is.  'E 
works  'ard  when  'e's  workin',  'e  can  use  'is  fives 
wiv  anyone,  'e  can  take  a  drink  or  leave  it, 
but  'e  prefers  takin'  it.    Nobody  can  take  a  rise 


At  Loos  131 

out  o'  'im  fer  'e  knows  'is  place,  an'  that's  more'n 
some  people  do." 

"Bill,  did  you  kill  any  Germans  this  morn- 
ing?" I  asked. 

"Maybe  I  did,"  Bill  answered,  "and  maybe  I 
didn't.  I  saw  one  bloke,  an  Allemong,  in  the 
front  trench  laughin'  like  'ell.  'I'll  make  yer 
laugh,'  I  said  to  'im,  and  shoved  my  bayonet  at 
'is  bread  basket.  Then  I  seed  'is  foot;  it  was 
right  off  at  the  ankle.  I  left  'im  alone.  After 
that  I  'ad  a  barney.  I  was  goin'  round  a  traverse 
and  right  in  front  of  me  was  a  Boche,  eight  foot 
'igh  or  more.  Oh!  'e  'ad  a  bayonet  as  long  as 
'imself,  and  a  beard  as  long  as  'is  bayonet." 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"Oh!  I  retreated,"  said  Bill.  "Then  I  met 
four  of  the  Jocks,  they  'ad  bombs.  I  told  them 
wot  I  seen  an'  they  went  up  with  me  to  the 
place.  The  Boche  saw  us  and  'e  rushed  inter  a 
dug-out.  One  of  the  Jocks  threw  a  bomb,  and 
bang! " 

"Have  you  seen  Kore?"  I  asked. 

"No,  I  didn't  see  'im  at  all,"  Bill  answered. 
"I  was  mad  for  a  while.  Then  I  saw  a  lot  of 
Alleymongs  rush  into  a  dug-out.     'Gor-blimey !' 


132  The  Great  PusK 

I  said  to  the  Jocks,  'we'll  give  'em  'ell/  and  I 
caught  'old  of  a  German  bomb,  one  'o  them  kind 
where  you  pull  the  string  out  and  this  sets  the 
fuse  goin'.  I  coiled  the  string  round  my  fingers 
and  pulled.  But  I  couldn't  loosen  the  string.  It 
was  a  go!  I  'eld  out  my  arm  with  the  bomb 
'angin'.  'Take  it  off !'  I  yelled  to  the  Jocks.  Yer 
should  see  them  run  off.  There  was  no  good  in 
me  runnin'.  Blimey  ! 1  didn't  'arf  feel  bad.  Talk 
about  a  cold  sweat;  I  sweated  icicles !  And  there 
was  the  damned  bomb  'angin'  from  my  'and  and 
me  thinkin'  it  was  goin'  to  burst.  But  it  didn't; 
I  'adn't  pulled  the  string  out  far  enough. 

"And  that's  Loos,"  he  went  on,  standing  on 
the  fire-step  and  looking  up  the  road.  "It's 
bashed  about  a  lot.  There's  'ardly  a  'ouse  stand- 
in'.  And  that's  the  Tower  Bridge,"  he  added, 
looking  fixedly  at  the  Twin  Towers  that  stood 
scarred  but  unbroken  over  Loos  coal  mine. 

"There  was  a  sniper  up  there  this  mornin'," 
he  told  me.  "  'E  didn't  'arf  cause  some  trouble. 
Knocked  out  dozens  of  our  fellers.  'E  was 
brought  down  at  last  by  a  bomb." 

He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  then  became  silent* 


At  Loos  133 

For   fully  five  minutes  there  was  not  a  word 
spoken. 

I  approached  the  parapet  stealthily  and  looked 
up  the  street  of  Loos,  a  solemn,  shell-scarred, 
mysterious  street  where  the  dead  lay  amidst  the 
broken  tiles.  Were  all  those  brown  bundles  dead 
men?  Some  of  them  maybe  were  still  dying; 
clutching  at  life  with  vicious  energy.  A  bundle 
lay  near  me,  a  soldier  in  khaki  with  his  hat  gone. 
I  could  see  his  close,  compact,  shiny  curls  which 
seemed  to  have  been  glued  on  to  his  skull.  Clam- 
bering up  the  parapet  I  reached  forward  and 
turned  him  round  and  saw  his  face.  It  was 
leaden-hued  and  dull ;  the  wan  and  almost  colour- 
less eyes  fixed  on  me  in  a  vague  and  glassy  stare, 
the  jaw  dropped  sullenly,  and  the  tongue  hung 
out.  Dead.  .  .  .  And  up  the  street,  down  in  the 
cellars,  at  the  base  of  the  Twin  Towers,  they 
were  dying.  How  futile  it  was  to  trouble  about 
one  when  thousands  needed  help.  Where  should 
I  begin?  Who  should  I  help  first?  Any  help 
I  might  be  able  to  give  seemed  so  useless.  I  had 
been  at  work  all  the  morning  dressing  the 
wounded,  but  there  were  so  many,,  I  was  a  mere 
child  emptying  the  sea  with  a  tablespoon.     I 


134  The  Great  PusK 

crawled  into  the  trench  again  to  find  Bill  still 
looking  over  the  parapet.  This  annoyed  me. 
Why,  I  could  not  tell. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  I  asked. 

There  was  no  answer.  I  looked  along  the 
trench  and  saw  that  all  the  men  were  looking 
towards  the  enemy's  line ;  watching,  as  it  seemed, 
for  something  to  take  place.  None  knew  what 
the  next  moment  would  bring  forth.  The  ex- 
pectant mood  was  prevalent.    All  were  waiting. 

Up  the  road  some  houses  were  still  peopled 
with  Germans,  and  snipers  were  potting  at  us 
with  malicious  persistency,  but  behind  the  parapet 
we  were  practically  immune  from  danger.  As 
we  looked  a  soldier  appeared  round  the  bend  of 
the  trench,  the  light  of  battle  in  his  eyes  and  his 
body  festooned  with  bombs. 

"It's  dangerous  to  go  up  the  centre  of  the 
street,"  I  called  to  him  as  he  came  to  a  halt  be- 
side me  and  looked  up  the  village. 

"Bend  down,"  I  said.  "Your  head  is  over  the 
parapet."  I  recognised  the  man.  He  was  Gil- 
hooley  the  bomber. 

"What  does  it  matter  ?"  he  muttered.  "I  want 
to  get  at  them.  .   .   .  Oh !  I  know  yer  face.  .   .  ., 


At  Loos  135 

D'ye  mind  the  champagne  at  Nouex-les-Mines. 
n  .  .  These  bombs  are  real  ones,  me  boy.  .  .  .  Do 
you  know  where  the  snipers  are?" 

"There's  one  up  there,"  I  said,  raising  my  head 
and  pointing  to  a  large  house  on  the  left  of  the 
road  near  the  Twin  Towers.  "I  saw  the  smoke 
of  his  rifle  when  he  fired  at  me  a  while  ago." 

"Then  he  must  get  what  he's  lookin'  for,"  said 
Gilhooley,  tightening  his  belt  of  bombs,  and, 
clutching  his  rifle,  rushed  out  into  the  roadway. 
"By  Jasus!     I'll  get  him  out  of  it!" 

I  raised  my  head  and  watched,  fascinated. 
With  prodigious  strides  Gilhooley  raced  up  the 
street,  his  rifle  clutched  tightly  in  his  hand.  Sud- 
denly he  paused,  as  if  in  thought,  and  his  rifle 
went  clattering  across  the  cobbles.  Then  he  sanjc 
slowly  to  the  ground,  kicking  out  a  little  with 
his  legs.  The  bullet  had  hit  him  in  the  jaw  and 
it  came  out  through  the  back  of  his  neck.  .   .   . 

I  could  hear  the  wounded  crying  and  moaning 
somewhere  near,  or  perhaps  far  away.  A  low, 
lazy  breeze  slouched  up  from  the  field  which  we 
had  crossed  that  morning,  and  sound  travelled 
far.  The  enemy  snipers  on  Hulluch  copse  were 
busy,   and  probably  the  dying  were  being  hit 


136  The  Great  PusK 

again.  Some  of  them  desired  it,  the  slow  proc- 
ess of  dying  on  the  open  field  of  war  is  so  dread- 
ful. ...  A  den  of  guns,  somewhere  near  Lens, 
became  voluble,  and  a  monstrous  fanfare  of  fury 
echoed  in  the  heavens.  The  livid  sky  seemed  to 
pull  itself  up  as  if  to  be  out  of  the  way;  under 
it  the  cavalcades  of  war  ran  riot.  A  chorus  of 
screeches  and  yells  rose  trembling  and  whirling 
in  air,  snatching  at  each  other  like  the  snarling 
and  barking  of  angry  dogs. 

Bill  stood  motionless,  looking  at  the  enemy's 
line,  his  gaze  concentrated  on  a  single  point;  in 
his  eyes  there  was  a  tense,  troubled  expression, 
as  if  he  was  calculating  a  sum  which  he  could 
not  get  right.  Now  and  again  he  would  shake 
his  head  as  if  trying  to  throw  something  off  and 
address  a  remark  to  the  man  next  him,  who  did 
not  seem  to  hear.  Probably  he  was  asleep.  In 
the  midst  of  artillery  tumult  some  men  are  over- 
come with  languor  and  drop  asleep  as  they  stand. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  get  excited,  burst  into 
song  and  laugh  boisterously  at  most  common- 
place incidents. 

Amidst  the  riot,  an  undertone  of  pain  became 
more  persistent  than  ever.    The  levels  where  the 


At  Loos  137 

wounded  lay  were  raked  with  shrapnel  that  burst 
viciously  in  air  and  struck  the  bloodstained  earth 
with  spiteful  vigour. 

The  cry  for  stretcher-bearers  came  down  the 
trench,  and  I  hurried  off  to  attend  to  the  stricken, 
'-''met  him  crawling  along  on  all  fours,  looking 
like  an  ungainly  lobster  that  has  escaped  from  a 
basket.  A  bullet  had  hit  the  man  in  the  back 
and  he  was  in  great  pain;  so  much  in  pain  that 
when  I  was  binding  his  wound  he  raised  his  fist: 
and  hit  me  in  the  face. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  muttered,  a  moment  after- 
wards.   "I  didn't  mean  it,  but,  my  God!  this  is 

hell !" 

"You'll  have  to  lie  here,"  I  said,  when  I  put 
the  bandage  on.  "You'll  get  carried  out  at  night; 
when  we  can  cross  the  open." 

"I'm  going  now,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  go  now. 
I  must  get  away.    You'll  let  me  go,  won't  you, 

Pat?" 

"You'll  be  killed  before  you're  ten  yards  across 
the  open,"  I  said.    "Better  wait  till  to-night." 

"Does  the  trench  lead  out?"  he  asked. 

"It  probably  leads  to  the  front  trench  which 
the  Germans  occupied  this  morning,"  I  said. 


138  The  Great  PusK 

"Well,  if  we  get  there  it  will  be  a  step  nearer 
the  dressing-station,  anyway,"  said  the  wounded 
boy.     "Take  me  away  from  here,  do  please." 

"Can  you  stand  upright?" 

"I'll  try,"  he  answered,  and  half  weeping  and 
half  laughing,  he  got  to  his  feet.  "I'll  be  abrc 
to  walk  down,"  he  muttered. 

We  set  off.  I  walked  in  front,  urging  the  men 
ahead  to  make  way  for  a  wounded  man.  No 
order  meets  with  such  quick  obedience  as  "Make 
way  for  wounded." 

All  the  way  from  Loos  to  the  churchyard 
which  the  trench  fringes  and  where  the  bones  of 
the  dead  stick  out  through  the  parapet,  the 
trench  was  in  fairly  good  order,  beyond  that  was 
the  dumping  ground  of  death. 

The  enemy  in  their  endeavour  to  escape  from 
the  Irish  that  morning  crowded  the  trench  like 
sheep  in  a  lane-way,  and  it  was  here  that  the 
bayonet,  rifle-butt  and  bomb  found  them.  Now, 
they  lay  six  deep  in  places.  .  .  .  One  bare-headed 
man  lay  across  the  parapet,  his  hand  grasping  his 
rifle,  his  face  torn  to  shreds  with  rifle  bullets. 
One  of  his  own  countrymen,  hidden  in  Hulluch 
copse,  was  still  sniping  at  the  dead  thing,  believ- 


At  Loos  139 

ing  it  to  be  an  English  soldier.  Such  is  the  irony 
of  war.  The  wounded  man  ambled  painfully  be- 
hind me,  grunting  and  groaning.  Sometimes  he 
stopped  for  a  moment,  leant  against  the  side  of 
the  trench  and  swore  for  several  seconds.  Then 
he  muttered  a  word  of  apology  and  followed  me 
in  silence.  When  we  came  to  the  places  where 
the  dead  lay  six  deep  we  had  to  crawl  across 
them  on  our  hands  and  knees.  To  raise  our 
heads  over  the  parapet  would  be  courting  quick 
death.  We  would  become  part  of  that  demolition 
of  blood  and  flesh  that  was  necessary  for  our 
victory.  In  front  of  us  a  crowd  of  civilians,  old 
men,  women  and  children,  was  crawling  and 
stumbling  over  the  dead  bodies.  A  little  boy 
was  eating  the  contents  of  a  bully-beef  tin  with 
great  relish,  and  the  ancient  female  who  accom- 
panied him  crossed  herself  whenever  she  stum- 
bled across  a  prostrate  German.  The  civilians 
were  leaving  Loos. 

On  either  side  we  could  hear  the  wounded  mak- 
ing moan,  their  cry  was  like  the  yelping  of 
drowning  puppies.  But  the  man  who  was  with 
me  seemed  unconscious  of  his  surroundings; 
seldom  even  did  he  notice  the  dead  on  the  floor 


;i40  The  Great  PusH 

of  the  trench;  he  walked  over  them  unconcern- 
edly. 

I  managed  to  bring  him  down  to  the  dressing- 
fetation.  When  we  arrived  he  sat  on  a  seat  and 
Cried  like  a  child. 


CHAPTER  X 


A   NIGHT   IN   LOOS 


"Never  see  good  in  an  enemy  until  you  have  defeated 
him." — War  Proverb. 

TWILIGHT  softened  the  gaunt  corners  of 
the  ruined  houses,  and  sheaves  of  shad- 
ows cowered  in  unfathomable  corners.; 
A  wine  shop,  gashed  and  fractured,  said  "hush !" 
to  us  as  we  passed;  the  shell-holed  streets  gaped 
at  the  indifferent,  unconcerned  sky. 

"See  the  streets  are  yawning,"  I  said  to  my 
mate,  Bill  Teake. 

"That's  because  they're  bored,"  he  replied. 

"Bill,"  I  said,  "what  do  you  mean  by  bored  ?'* 

"They've  holes  in  them,"  he  answer.  "Why 
d'yer  arst  me?" 

"I  wanted  to  know  if  you  were  trying  to  make 
a  pun,"  I  said.    "That's  all." 

Bill  grunted,  and  a  moment's  silence  ensued. 

"Suppose  it  were  made  known  to  you,  Bill,"  I 
said,  "that  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  life  this 


141 


"1 


"1 


142  The  Great  Push 

was  all  you  could  look  forward  to,  dull  hours 
of  waiting  in  the  trenches,  sleep  in  sodden  dug- 
outs, eternal  gun-firing  and  innumerable  bayonet- 
charges  ;  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"Wot  would  I  do?"  said  Bill,  coming  to  a  halt 
in  the  middle  of  the  street.  "This  is  wot  I'd  do," 
he  said  with  decision.  "I'd  put  a  round  in  the 
breech,  lay  my  'ead  on  the  muzzle  of  my  'ipe,  and 
reach  down  and  pull  the  blurry  trigger.  Wot 
would  you  do?" 

'I  should  become  very  brave,"  I  replied. 

'I  see  wot  yer  mean,"  said  Bill.  "Ye'd  be  up 
to  the  Victoria  Cross  caper,  and  run  yer  nose 
into  danger  every  time  yer  got  a  chance." 

"You  may  be  right,"  I  replied.  "No  one  likes 
this  job,  but  we  all  endure  it  as  a  means  towards 
an  end." 

"Flat!"  I  yelled,  flopping  to  the  ground  and 
dragging  Bill  with  me,  as  a  shell  burst  on  a  house 
up  the  street  and  flung  a  thousand  splinters  roundj 
our  heads.     For  a  few  seconds  we  cowered  in 
the  mud,  then  rose  to  our  feet  again. 

"There  are  means  by  which  we  are  going  to 
end  war,"  I  said.  "Did  you  see  the  dead  and 
wounded  to-day,  the  men  groaning  and  shriek- 


A  Night  in  Loos  143 

ing,  the  bombs  flung  down  into  cellars,  the  blood- 
stained bayonets,  the  gouging  and  the  gruelling; 
all  those  things  are  means  towards  creating  peace 
in  a  disordered  world. 

•  The  unrest  which  precedes  night  made  itseli 
felt  in  Loos.  Crows  made  their  way  homeward, 
cleaving  the  air  with  weary  wings;  a  tottering 
wall  fell  on  the  street  with  a  melancholy  clatter, 
and  a  joist  creaked  near  at  hand,  yearning,  as  it 
seemed,  to  break  free  from  its  shattered  neigh- 
bours. A  lone  wind  rustled  down  the  street, 
weeping  over  the  fallen  bricks,  and  crooning 
across  barricades  and  machine-gun  emplace- 
ments. The  greyish-white  evening  sky  cast  a 
vivid  pallor  over  the  Twin  Towers,  which  stood, 
out  sharply  defined  against  the  lurid  glow  of  a 
,fire  in  Lens. 

All  around  Loos  lay  the  world  of  trenches, 
secret  streets,  sepulchral  towns,  houses  whose 
chimneys  scarcely  reached  the  level  of  the  earth, 
crooked  alleys,  bayonet  circled  squares,  and  lonely 
graveyards  where  dead  soldiers  lay  in  the  silent 
sleep  that  wakens  to  no  earthly  reveille. 

The  night  fell.  The  world  behind  the  German 
lines  was  lighted  up  with  a  white  glow,  the  clouds 


144  The  Great  Push 

seemed  afire,  and  ran  with  a  flame  that  was  not 
red  and  had  no  glare.  The  tint  was  pale,  and  it 
trailed  over  Lens  and  the  spinneys  near  the  town, 
and  spread  trembling  over  the  levels.  White  as 
a  winding  sheet,  it  looked  like  a  fire  of  frost,  vast 
and  wide  diffused.  Every  object  in  Loos  seemed 
to  loose  its  reality,  a  spectral  glimmer  hung  over 
the  ruins,  and  the  walls  were  no  more  than  out- 
lines. The  Twin  Towers  was  a  tracery  of  silver 
and  enchanted  fairy  construction  that  the  sun 
at  dawn  might  melt  away,  the  barbed-wire  entan- 
glements (those  in  front  of  the  second  German 
trench  had  not  been  touched  by  our  artillery) 
were  fancies  in  gossamer.  The  world  was  an 
enchanted  poem  of  contrasts  of  shadow  and  shine, 
of  nooks  and  corners  black  as  ebony,  and  promi- 
nent objects  that  shone  with  a  spiritual  glow. 
SMen  coming  down  the  street  bearing  stretchers 
or  carrying  rations  were  phantoms,  the  men 
stooping  low  over  the  earth  digging  holes  for 
their  dead  comrades  were  as  ghostly  as  that  which 
they  buried.  I  lived  in  a  strange  world — a  world 
of  dreams  and  illusions. 

Where  am  I ?  I  asked  myself.    Am  I  here ?    Do 
I  exist?    Where  are  the  boys  who  marched  with 


A  Night  in  Loos  145 

me  from  Les  Brebis  last  night?  I  had  looked  on 
them  during  the  day,  seeing  them  as  I  had  never 
seen  them  before,  lying  in  silent  and  unquestion- 
ing peace,  close  to  the  yearning  earth.  Never 
again  should  I  hear  them  sing  in  the  musty  barns 
near  Givenchy;  never  again  would  we  drink  red 
wine  together  in  Cafe  Pierre  le  Blanc,  Nouex- 
les-Mines.  .  .  . 

Bill  Teake  went  back  to  his  duties  in  the  trench 
and  left  me. 

A  soldier  came  down  the  street  and  halted  op- 
posite. 

"What's  that  light,  soldier  ?"  he  asked  me. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

"I  hear  it's  an  ammunition  depot  afire  in  Lens," 
said  the  man.  "Our  shells  hit  it,  and  their  blurry 
bullets  have  copped  me  now,"  he  muttered,  drop- 
ping on  the  roadway  and  crawling  towards  the 
shelter  of  the  wall  on  his  belly. 

"Where  are  you  hit?"  I  asked,  helping  him 
into  the  ruins  of  the  estaminet — my  dressing-sta- 
tion. 

"In  the  leg,"  he  answered,  "just  below  the  knee. 
It  was  when  I  was  speaking  to  you  about  the  am- 
munition depot  on  fire.    'Our  shells  hit  it,'  I  said, 


146  The  Great  PusH 

and  just  then  something  went  siss!  through  my 
calf.  'Their  blurry  bullets  have  copped  me  now,' 
I  said,  didn't  I  ?" 

"You  did,"  I  answered,  laying  my  electric  torch 
on  the  table  and  placing  the  wounded  man  on  the 
floor.  I  ripped  open  his  trousers  and  found  the 
wound;  the  bullet  had  gone  through  the  calf. 

"Can  you  use  your  foot?"  I  asked,  and  he 
moved  his  boot  up  and  down. 

"No  fracture,"  I  told  him.  "You're  all  right 
for  blighty,  matey." 

One  of  my  mates  who  was  sleeping  in  a  cellar, 
came  up  at  that  moment. 

"Still  dressing  wounded,  Pat?"  he  asked. 

"I  just  got  wounded  a  minute  ago,"  said  the 
man  on  the  floor  as  I  fumbled  about  with  a  first 
field  dressing.  "I  was  speaking  to  Pat  about  the 
fire  at  Lens,  and  I  told  him  that  our  shells  hit 
it,  'and  a  blurry  bullet  has  copped  me  now,'  I 
said,  when  I  felt  something  go  siss !  through  my 
leg." 

"Lucky  dog,"  said  the  man  on  the  stair  head. 
"I'd  give  fifteen  pounds  for  your  wound." 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  the  man  on  the  floor, 
with  a  laugh. 


A  Night  in  Loos  147 

"When  can  I  get  down  to  the  dressing-sta- 
tion?" he  asked. 

"Now,  if  you  can  walk,"  I  told  him.  "If  you're 
to  be  carried  I  shall  need  three  other  men;  the 
mud  is  knee  deep  on  the  road  to  Maroc." 

"I'll  see  if  I  can  walk,"  said  the  man,  and  tried 
to  rise  to  his  feet.  The  effort  was  futile,  he  col- 
lapsed like  a  wet  rag.  Fifteen  minutes  later  four 
of  us  left  Loos  bearing  a  stretcher  on  our  shoul- 
ders, and  trudged  across  the  fields  to  the  main 
road  and  into  the  crush  of  war  traffic,  hideously 
incongruous  in  the  pale  light  of  the  quiet  night. 
The  night  was  quiet,  for  sounds  that  might  make 
for  riot  were  muffled  by  the  mud.  The  limbers' 
wheels  were  mud  to  the  axles,  the  mules  drew 
their  legs  slowly  out  of  muck  almost  reaching 
their  bellies.  Motor  ambulances,  wheeled  stretch- 
ers, ammunition  wagons,  gun  carriages,  limbers, 
water-carts,  mules,  horses  and  men  going  up 
dragged  their  sluggish  way  through  the  mud  on 
one  side  of  the  road;  mules,  horses  and  men,  wa- 
ter-carts, limbers,  gun  carriages,  ammunition 
wagons,  wheeled  stretchers  and  motor  ambu- 
lances coming  down  moved  slowly  along  the  other 
side.    Every  man  had  that  calm  and  assured  in- 


'148  The  Great  Push 

(difference  that  comes  with  ordinary  everyday  life. 
Each  was  full  of  his  own  work,  preoccupied  with 
his  toil,  he  was  lost  to  the  world  around  him.  For 
the  driver  of  the  cart  that  we  followed,  a  prob- 
lem had  to  be  worked  out.  The  problem  was  this : 
how  could  he  bring  his  mules  and  vehicles  into 
Maroc  and  bring  up  a  second  load,  then  pilot  his 
animals  through  mud  and  fire  into  Les  Brebis 
before  dawn;  feed  himself  and  his  mules  (when 
he  got  into  safety),  drink  a  glass  or  two  of  wine 
(if  he  had  the  money  to  pay  for  it),  and  wrap 
himself  in  his  blanket  and  get  to  sleep  in  decent 
time  for  a  good  day's  rest.  Thus  would  he  finish 
his  night  of  work  if  the  gods  were  kind.  But 
they  were  not. 

A  momentary  stoppage,  and  the  mules  stood 
stiffly  in  the  mud,  the  offside  wheeler  twitching 
a  long,  restless  ear.  The  driver  lay  back  in  his 
seat,  resigned  to  the  delay.  I  could  see  his  whip 
in  air,  his  face  turned  to  the  east  where  the  blaz- 
ing star-shells  lit  the  line  of  battle.  A  machine 
gun  spoke  from  Hill  70,  and  a  dozen  searching 
bullets  whizzed  about  our  heads.  The  driver  ut- 
tered a  sharp,  infantile  yell  like  a  snared  rabbit, 
leant  sideways,  and  fell  down  on  the  roadway. 


A  Night  in  Eoos  149 

The  mule  with  the  twitching  ear  dropped  on  top 
of  the  man  and  kicked  out  wildly  with  its  hind 
legs. 

"Cut  the  'oss  out!"  yelled  someone  from  the 
top  of  a  neighbouring  wagon,  and  three  or  four 
soldiers  rushed  to  the  rescue,  pulled  the  driver 
clear,  and  felt  his  heart. 

"Dead,"  one  said,  dodging  to  avoid  the  hoofs 
of  the  wounded  mule.  "The  bullet  'as  caught 
the  poor  cove  in  the  forehead.  .  .  .  Well,  it's  all 
over  now,  and  there's  nothing  to  be  done." 

"Shoot  the  mule,"  someone  suggested.  "It's 
kicking  its  mate  in  the  belly.  .  .  .  Also  put  the 
dead  man  out  of  the  roadway.  'E'll  get  mixed 
with  the  wheels." 

Someone  procured  a  rifle,  placed  the  muzzle 
close  to  the  animal's  ear,  and  fired.  The  mule 
stretched  its  hind  legs  lazily  out  and  ceased  its 
struggles.  Movement  was  resumed  ahead,  and 
dodging  round  the  dead  man,  we  continued  our 
journey  through  the  mud.  It  was  difficult  to 
make  headway,  our  legs  were  knee-deep  in  slush, 
and  the  monstrous  futility  of  shoving  our  way 
through,  wearied  us  beyond  telling.  Only  at  rare 
intervals   could  we  lift  our   feet   clear   of   the 


ISO  The  Great  Push 

ground  and  walk  in  comparative  ease  for  a  few; 
moments.  Now  and  again  a  machine  gun  opened 
on  the  moving  throng,  and  bullets  hummed  by 
perilously  close  to  our  ears.  The  stretcher  was 
»a  dead  weight  on  us,  and  the  poles  cut  into  our 
shoulders. 

The  Scottish  had  charged  across  the  road  in 
the  morning,  and  hundreds  had  come  to  grief. 
They  were  lying  everywhere,  out  on  the  fields, 
by  the  roadside,  and  in  the  roadway  mixed  up 
with  the  mud.  The  driver  who  had  been  killed 
a  moment  ago  was  so  preoccupied  with  his  task 
that  he  had  no  time  for  any  other  work  but  his 
own.  We  were  all  like  him.  We  had  one  job  to 
do  and  that  job  took  up  our  whole  attention  until 
it  was  completed.  That  was  why  our  party  did 
not  put  down  our  stretcher  on  the  road  and  raise 
the  dead  from  the  mud ;  we  walked  over  them. 

How  cold  they  looked,  the  kilted  lads  lying 
on  their  backs  in  the  open,  their  legs,  bare  from 
knee  to  hip,  white  and  ghostly  in  the  wan  light 
of  the  blazing  ammunition  depot  at  Lens. 

Mud  on  the  roadway,  reaching  to  the  axles  of 
the  limber  wheels,  dead  men  on  the  roadside, 
horses  and  mules  tugging  and  straining  at  the 


A  Night  in  Loos  151 

creaking  vehicles,  wounded  men  on  the  stretch- 
ers; that  was  the  picture  of  the  night,  and  on 
we  trudged,  moving  atoms  of  a  pattern  that  kept 
continually  repeating  itself. 

The  mutilated  and  maimed  who  still  lay  out  in 
the  open  called  plaintively  for  succour.  "For 
God's  sake  bring  me  away  from  here,"  a  voice 
called.  "I've  been  lying  out  this  last  four  days." 
The  man  who  spoke  had  been  out  since  dawn,  but 
periods  of  unconsciousness  had  disordered  his 
count  of  time,  and  every  conscious  moment  was 
an  eternity  of  suffering. 

We  arrived  at  Q instead  of  Maroc,  hav- 
ing missed  the  right  turning.  The  village  was 
crowded  with  men;  a  perfect  village  it  was,  with 
every  house  standing,  though  the  civilian  popula- 
tion had  long  since  gone  to  other  places.  Two 
shells,  monstrous  twelve-inch  terrors,  that  failed 
to  explode,  lay  on  the  pavement  at  the  entrance. 
We  went  past  these  gingerly,  as  ladies  in  dainty 
clothing  might  pass  a  fouling  post,  and  carried 
our  burden  down  the  streets  to  the  dressing- 
station.  Outside  the  door  were  dozens  of 
stretchers,  and  on  each  a  stricken  soldier,  quiet 
and  resigned,  who  gazed  into  the  cheerless  and 


152  The  Great  Push 

unconcerned  sky  as  if  trying  to  find  some  dead- 
ened hope. 

A  Scottish  regiment  relieved  from  the  trenches 
stood  round  a  steaming  dixie  of  tea,  each  man 
with  a  mess-tin  in  his  hand.  I  approached  the 
Jocks. 

"Any  tea  to  spare?"  I  asked  one. 

"Aye,  mon,  of  course  there's  a  drappie  goinV' 
he  answered,  and  handed  me  the  mess-tin  from 
which  he  had  been  drinking. 

"How  did  you  fare  to-day?"  I  asked. 

"There's  a  wheen  o'  us  left  yet,"  he  replied 
with  a  solemn  smile.  "A  dozen  dixies  of  tea 
would  nae  gang  far  among  us  yesterday ;  but  wi' 
one  dixie  the  noo,  we've  some  to  spare.  .  w  w 
Wha'  d'ye  belong  tae?"  he  asked. 

"The  London  Irish,"  I  told  him. 

"  'Twas  your  fellows  that  kicked  the  futba' 
across  the  field?" 

"Yes." 

"Into  the  German  trench?" 

"Not  so  far,"  I  told  the  man.  "A  bullet  hit 
the  ball  by  the  barbed-wire  entanglements ;  I  saw 
it  lying  there  during  the  day." 


A  Night  in  Loos  153 

"  'Twas  the  maddest  thing  I've  ever  heard  o'," 
said  the  Jock.    "Hae  ye  lost  many  men?" 

"A  good  number,"  I  replied. 

"I  suppose  ye  did,"  said  the  man,  but  by  his 
voice,  I  knew  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  inter- 
ested in  our  losses;  not  even  in  the  issue  of  battle. 
In  fact,  few  of  us  knew  of  the  importance  of  the 
events  in  which  we  took  part,  and  cared  as  little. 
If  I  asked  one  of  our  boys  at  that  moment  what 
were  his  thoughts  he  would  answer,  if  he  spoke 
truly:  "I  wonder  when  we're  going  to  get  re- 
lieved," or  "I  hope  we're  going  to  get  a  month's 
rest  when  we  get  out."  Soldiers  always  speak  of 
"we";  the  individual  is  submerged  in  his  regi- 
ment. We,  soldiers,  are  part  of  the  Army,  the 
British  Army,  which  will  be  remembered  in  days 
to  come,  not  by  a  figurehead,  as  the  fighters  of 
Waterloo  are  remembered  by  Wellington,  but  as 
an  army  mighty  in  deed,  prowess  and  endurance ; 
an  army  which  outshone  its  figureheads. 

I  went  back  to  the  dressing-station.  Our 
wounded  man  was  inside,  and  a  young  doctor 
was  busy  putting  on  a  fresh  dressing.  The  sol- 
dier was  narrating  the  story  of  his  wound. 

"I  was  speaking  to  a  stretcher-bearer  about 


154  The  Great  Push 

the  ammunition  depot  afire  in  Lens,"  he  was  say- 
ing. "  'Our  shells  hit  it,  and  their  bloomin'  bul- 
lets 'ave  copped  me  now/  I  said,  when  something 
went  siss!  through  my  leg." 

The  man  gazed  round  at  the  door  and  saw 
me. 

"Wasn't  that  what  I  said,  Pat?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  answered.  "You  said  that  their 
blooming  bullets  had  copped  you." 


CHAPTER  XI 

LOOS 

The  dead  men  lay  on  the  cellar  stair, 
Toll  of  the  bomb  that  found  them  there; 
In  the  streets  men  fell  as  a  bullock  drops, 
Sniped  from  the  fringe  of  Hulluch  copse. 
And  stiff  in  khaki  the  boys  were  laid — 
Food  of  the  bullet  and  hand-grenade — 
This  we  saw  when  the  charge  was  done, 
And  the  East  grew  pale  to  the  rising  sun 
In  the  town  of  Loos  in  the  morning. 

A  RIM  of  grey  clouds  clustered  thick  on 
the  horizon  as  if  hiding  some  wonderful 
secret  from  the  eyes  of  men.  Above  my 
head  the  stars  were  twinkling,  a  soft  breeze 
swung  over  the  open,  and  moist  gusts  caught  me 
in  the  face  as  I  picked  my  way  carefully  through 
the  still  figures  in  brown  and  grey  that  lay  all 
over  the  stony  face  of  the  level  lands.  A  spinney 
on  the  right  was  wrapped  in  shadow,  and  when, 
for  a  moment,  I  stood  to  listen,  vague  whispers 
and  secret  rustlings  could  be  heard  all  around. 
The  hour  before  the  dawn  was  full  of  wonder, 

the  world  in  which  I  moved  was  pregnant  with 

155 


156  The  Great  Push 

mystery.  "Who  are  these?"  I  asked  myself  as 
I  looked  at  the  still  figures  in  khaki.  "Where  is 
the  life,  the  vitality  of  yesterday's  dawn;  the 
fire  of  eager  eyes,  the  mad  pulsing  of  roving 
blood,  and  the  great  heart  of  young  adventure? 
Has  the  roving,  the  vitality  and  the  fire  come  to 
this ;  gone  out  like  sparks  from  a  star-shell  falling 
in  a  pond?  What  are  these  things  here?  What 
am  I?  What  is  the  purpose  served  by  all  this 
'demolition  and  waste?"  Like  a  child  in  the  dark 
I  put  myself  the  question,  but  there  was  no  an- 
swer. The  stars  wheel  on  their  courses  over  the 
dance  of  death  and  the  feast  of  joy,  ever  the 
same. 

I  walked  up  to  the  church  by  the  trench 
through  the  graveyard  where  the  white  bones 
stuck  out  through  the  parapet.  A  pale  mist  gath- 
ered round  the  broken  headstones  and  crept 
along  the  bushes  of  the  fence.  The  Twin  Towers 
stood  in  air — moody,  apathetic,  regardless  of  the 
shrapnel  incense  that  the  guns  wafted  against 
the  lean  girders.  Sparrows  twittered  in  the  field, 
and  a  crow  broke  clumsily  away  from  the 
branches  in  the  spinney.  A  limber  jolted  along 
the  road  near  me  creaking  and  rumbling.     On! 


Loos  157 

driver,  on!  Get  to  Les  Brebis  before  the  dawn, 
and  luck  be  with  you!  If  the  enemy  sees  you! 
On!  on!  I  knew  that  he  hurried;  that  one  eye 
was  on  the  east  where  the  sky  was  flushing  a 
faint  crimson,  and  the  other  on  the  road  in  front 
where  the  dead  mules  grew  more  distinct  and 
where  the  faces  of  the  dead  men  showed  more 
clearly. 

At  that  moment  the  enemy  began  to  shell  the 
road  and  the  trench  running  parallel  to  it.  I 
slipped  into  the  shelter  and  waited.  The  trans- 
port came  nearer,  rolling  and  rumbling;  the 
shrapnel  burst  violently.  I  cowered  close  to  the 
parapet  and  I  had  a  vivid  mental  picture  of  the 
driver  leaning  forward  on  the  neck  of  his  mule, 
his  teeth  set,  his  breath  coming  in  short,  sudden 
gasps.  "Christ!  am  I  going  to  get  out  of  it?" 
he  must  have  said.    "Will  dawn  find  me  at  Les 

Brebis?" 

Something  shot  clumsily  through  the  air  and 
went  plop!  against  the  parados. 

"Heavens!  it's  all  up  with  me!"  I  said,  and 
waited  for  the  explosion.  But  there  was  none. 
I  looked  round  and  saw  a  leg  on  the  floor  of  the 
trench,  the  leg  of  the  transport  driver,  with  its 


158  TKe  Great  Push 

leg-iron  shining  like  silver.  The  man's  boot  was 
almost  worn  through  in  the  sole,  and  the  upper 
was  gashed  as  if  with  a  knife.  I'm  sure  it  must 
have  let  in  the  wet.  .  .  .  And  the  man  was  alive 
a  moment  ago!  The  mule  was  still  clattering 
along,  I  could  hear  the  rumble  of  the  wagon. 
,.  .  .  The  firing  ceased,  and  I  went  out  in  the 
open  again. 

I  walked  on  the  rim  of  the  parapet  and  gazed 
into  the  dark  streak  of  trench  where  the  shadows 
clustered  round  traverse  and  dug-out  door.  In 
one  bay  a  brazier  was  burning,  and  a  bent  figure 
of  a  man  leant  over  a  mess-tin  of  bubbling  tea. 
All  at  once  he  straightened  himself  and  looked  up 
at  me. 

'Tat  MacGill  ?"  he  queried. 

"A  good  guess,"  I  answered.  "You're  making 
breakfast  early." 

"A  drop  of  tea  on  a  cold  morning  goes  down 
well,"  he  answered.  "Will  you  have  a  drop? 
I've  milk  and  a  sultana  cake." 

"How  did  you  come  by  that?"  I  asked. 

"In  a  dead  man's  pack,"  he  told  me,  as  he 
emptied  part  of  the  contents  of  the  tin  into  a  tin 
mug  and  handed  it  up. 


Loos  159 

The  tea  was  excellent.  A  breeze  swept  over 
the  parapet  and  ushered  in  the  dawn.  My  heart 
fluttered  like  a  bird;  it  was  so  happy,  so  wonder- 
ful to  be  alive,  drinking  tea  from  a  sooty  mess- 
tin  on  the  parapet  of  the  trench  held  by  the  enemy 
yesterday. 

"It's  quiet  at  present,"  I  said. 

"It'll  soon  not  be  quiet,"  said  the  man  in  the 
trench,  busy  now  with  a  rasher  of  bacon  which 
he  was  frying  on  his  mess-tin  lid.  "Where  have 
you  come  from?" 

"I've  been  all  over  the  place,"  I  said.  "Maroc, 
and  along  that  way.  You  should  see  the  road  to 
Maroc.  Muck  to  the  knees;  limbers,  carts, 
wagons,  guns,  stretchers,  and  God  knows  what! 
going  up  and  down.  Dead  and  dying  mules; 
bare-legged  Jocks  flat  in  the  mud  and  wheels  go- 
ing across  them.    I'll  never  forget  it." 

"Nobody  that  has  been  through  this  will  ever 
forget  it,"  said  the  man  in  the  trench.  "I've  seen 
more  sights  than  enough.  But  nothing  disturbs 
me  now.  I  remember  a  year  ago  if  I  saw  a 
man  getting  knocked  down  I'd  run  a  mile;  I 
never  saw  a  dead  person  till  I  came  here.  Will 
you  have  a  bit  of  bacon  and  fried  bread?" 


160  The  Great  PusH 

"Thanks,"  I  answered,  reaching-  down  for  the 
food.     "It's  very  good  of  you." 

"Don't  mention  it,  Pat,"  he  said,  blushing  as 
if  ashamed  of  his  kindness.  "Maybe,  it'll  be  my 
turn  to  come  to  you  next  time  I'm  hungry.  Any 
word  of  when  we're  getting  relieved?" 

"I  don't  hear  anything,"  I  said.  "Shortly,  I 
hope.    Many  of  your  mates  killed?"  I  asked. 

"Many  of  them  indeed,"  he  replied.  "Old  L,. 
went  west  the  moment  he  crossed  the  top.  He 
had  only  one  kick  at  the  ball.  A  bullet  caught 
him  in  the  belly.  I  heard  him  say  'A  foul;  a 
blurry  foul !'  as  he  went  all  in  a  heap.  He  was 
a  sticker !    Did  you  see  him  out  there?" 

He  pointed  a  thumb  to  the  field  in  rear. 

"There  are  so  many,"  I  replied.  "I  did  not 
come  across  him." 

"And  then  B.,  D.,  and  R.,  went,"  said  the 
man  in  the  trench.  "B.  with  a  petrol  bomb,  D. 
with  shrapnel,  and  R.  with  a  bayonet  wound. 
Some  of  the  Bavarians  made  a  damned  good 
fight  for  it."  .  .  . 

Round  the  traverse  a  voice  rose  in  song,  a 
trembling,  resonant  voice,  and  we  guessed  that 
sleep  was  still  heavy  in  the  eyes  of  the  singer : 


Loos  161 

'There's  a  silver  lining  through  the  dark  clouds  shining, 
We'll  turn  the  dark  cloud  inside  out  till  the  boys  come 
home." 


"Ah !  it  will  be  a  glad  day  and  a  sorrowful  day 
when  the  boys  come  home,"  said  the  man  in  the 
trench,  handing  me  a  piece  of  sultana  cake.  "The 
children  will  be  cheering,  the  men  will  be  cheer- 
ing, the  women — some  of  them.  One  woman 
will  say :  'There's  my  boy,  doesn't  he  look  well 
in  uniform?'  Then  another  will  say :  'Two  boys 
I  had,  they're  not  here '  " 

I  saw  a  tear  glisten  on  the  cheek  of  the  boy 
below  me,  and  something  seemed  to  have  caught 
in  his  throat.  His  mood  craved  privacy,  I  could 
tell  that  by  the  dumb  appeal  in  his  eyes. 

"Good  luck,  matey,"  I  mumbled,  and  walked 
away.     The  singer  looked  up  as  I  was  passing. 

"Mornin',  Pat,"  he  said.    "How  goes  it?" 

"Not  at  all  bad,"  I  answered. 

"Have  you  seen  W.  ?"  asked  the  singer. 

"I've  been  talking  to  him  for  the  last  twenty 
minutes,"  I  said.  "He  has  given  me  half  his 
breakfast." 

"I  suppose  he  couldn't  sleep  last  night,"  said 
the   singer,   cutting  splinters  of  wood   for   the 


162  The  Great  Push 

morning  fire.  '"You've  heard  that  his  brother 
was  killed  yesterday  morning?" 

"Oh !"  I  muttered.  "No,  I  heard  nothing  about 
it  until  now." 

The  dawn  glowed  crimson,  streaks  of  red  shot 
through  the  clouds  to  eastwards  and  touched  the 
bowl  of  sky  overhead  with  fingers  of  flame. 
From  the  dug-outs  came  the  sound  of  sleepy 
voices,  and  a  soldier  out  in  open  trench  was  clean- 
ing his  bayonet.  A  thin  white  fog  lay  close  to 
the  ground,  and  through  it  I  could  see  the  dead 
boys  in  khaki  clinging,  as  it  were,  to  the  earth. 
I  could  see  a  long  way  round.  Behind  was  the 
village  where  the  wounded  were  dressed;  how 
blurred  it  looked  with  its  shell-scarred  chimneys 
in  air  like  the  fingers  of  a  wounded  hand  held  up 
to  a  doctor.  The  chimneys,  dun-tinted  and  lonely, 
stood  silent  above  the  mist,  and  here  and  there  a 
tree  which  seemed  to  have  been  ejected  from  the 
brotherhood  of  its  kind  stood  out  in  the  open  all 
alone.  The  smoke  of  many  fires  curled  over  the 
line  of  trenches.  Behind  the  parapets  lay  many 
dead;  they  had  fallen  in  the  trench  and  their 
comrades  had  flung  them  out  into  the  open.  It 
was  sad  to  see  them  there;  yesterday  or  the  day 


Loos  163 

before  their  supple  legs  were  strong  for  a  long 
march;  to-day 

A  shell  burst  dangerously  near,  and  I  went  into 
the  trench ;  the  Germans  were  fumbling  for  their 
objective.  Our  artillery,  as  yet  quiet,  was  mak- 
ing preparations  for  an  anticipated  German 
counter-attack,  and  back  from  our  trench  to  Les 
Brebis,  every  spinney  concealed  a  battery,  every 
tree  a  gun,  and  every  broken  wall  an  ammunition 
depot.  The  dawning  sun  showed  the  terror  of 
war  quiet  in  gay  disguise;  the  blue-grey,  long- 
nosed  guns  hidden  in  orchards  where  the  apples 
lingered  late,  the  howitzers  under  golden-fringed 
leaves,  the  metallic  glint  on  the  weapons'  muz- 
zles; the  gunners  asleep  in  adjacent  dug-outs, 
their  blankets  tied  tightly  around  their  bodies, 
their  heads  resting  on  heavy  shells,  fit  pillows  for 
the  men  whose  work  dealt  in  death  and  destruc- 
tion. The  sleepers  husbanded  their  energy  for 
trying  labour,  the  shells  seemed  to  be  saving  their 
fury  for  more  sure  destruction.  All  our  men 
were  looking  forward  to  a  heavy  day's  work. 

I  went  back  to  the  dressing-station  in  Loos. 
The  street  outside,  pitted  with  shell-holes,  showed 
a  sullen  face  to  the  leaden  sky.    The  dead  lay  in 


164  The  Great  Push 

the  gutters,  on  the  pavement,  at  the  door-steps; 
the  quick  in  the  trenches  were  now  consolidating 
our  position,  strengthening  the  trench  which  we 
had  taken  from  the  Germans.  Two  soldiers  on 
guard  stood  at  the  door  of  the  dressing-station. 
I  dressed  a  few  wounds  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"What's  up  with  that  fool?"  said  a  voice  at 
the  door,  and  I  turned  to  the  man  who  spoke. 

"Who?"  I  inquired. 

"Come  and  see,"  said  the  man  at  the  door.  I 
looked  up  the  street  and  saw  one  of  our  boys 
standing  in  the  roadway  and  the  smoke  of  a  con- 
cussion shell  coiling  round  his  body.  It  was  Bill 
Teake.  He  looked  round,  noticed  us,  and  I  could 
see  a  smile  flower  broadly  on  his  face.  He  made 
a  step  towards  us,  halted  and  said  something  that 
sounded  like  "Yook!  yook!"  Then  he  took  an- 
other step  forward  and  shot  out  his  hand  as  if 
playing  bowls. 

"He's  going  mad?"  I  muttered.  "Bill,  what 
are  you  doing?"  I  cried  to  him. 

"Yook!  yook!  yook!"  he  answered  in  a  coaxing 
voice. 

"A  bullet  will  give  you  yook!  yook!  directly," 
I  cried.    "Get  under  cover  and  don't  be  a  fool." 


Loos  165 

'"Yook !  yook  !" 

Then  a  shell  took  a  neighbouring  chimney 
away  and  a  truckful  of  bricks  assorted  itself  on 
the  roadway  in  Bill's  neighbourhood.  Out  of  the 
smother  of  dust  and  lime  a  fowl,  a  long-necked 
black  hen,  fluttered  into  the  air  and  flew  towards 
bur  shelter.  On  the  road  in  front  it  alighted  and 
wobbled  its  head  from  one  side  to  another  in  a 
cursory  inspection  of  its  position.  Bill  Teake 
came  racing  down  the  road. 

"Don't  frighten  it  away!"  he  yelled.  "Don't 
shout.  I  want  that  'en  It's  my  own  'en.  I 
'discovered  it.    Yook!  yook!  yook!" 

He  sobered  his  pace  and  approached  the  hen 
with  cautious  steps.  The  fowl  was  now  standing 
on  one  leg,  the  other  leg  drawn  up  under  its 
wing,  its  head  in  listening  position,  and  its  atti- 
tude betokened  extreme  dejection.  It  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  Bill  when  he  peers  down  the 
neck  of  a  rum  jar  and  finds  the  jar  empty. 

"Not  a  word  now,"  said  Teake,  fixing  one  eye 
on  me  and  another  on  the  hen.  "I  must  get  my 
feelers  on  this  'ere  cackler.  It  was  up  there  sit- 
tin'  atop  of  a  dead  Jock  when  I  sees  it.  ..  >  ... 
[Yook!  yook!     That's  wot  you  must  say  to  a 


166  PPhe  Great  Push 

bloomin'  'en  w'en  yer  wants  ter  nab  it.   .    .    . 
Yook!  yook!  yook!" 

He  threw  a  crumb  to  the  fowl.  The  hen  picked 
it  up,  swallowed  it,  and  hopped  off  for  a  little 
distance.  Then  it  drew  one  leg  up  under  its 
wing  and  assumed  a  look  of  philosophic  calm. 

"Clever  hen!"  I  said. 

"Damned  ungrateful  fraud!"  said  Bill  angrily. 
"I've  given  it  'arf  my  iron  rations.  If  it  wasn't 
that  I  might  miss  it  I'd  fling  a  bully-beef  tin  at 
it." 

Where's  your  rifle?"  I  inquired. 
Left  it  in  the  trench,"  Bill  replied.  "I  just 
came  out  to  look  for  sooveneers.  This  is  the  only 
sooveneer  I  seen.  Yook!  yook!  I'll  sooveneer 
yer,  yer  swine.  Don't  yer  understand  yer  own 
language?" 

The  hen  made  a  noise  like  a  chuckling  frog. 

"Yes,  yer  may  uck!  uck!"  cried  Bill,  apostro- 
phising the  fowl.  "I'll  soon  stop  yer  uck!  uck! 
yer  one-legged  von  Kluck!  Where's  a  rifle  to 
spare?" 

I  handed  him  a  spare  rifle  which  belonged  to  a 
man  who  had  been  shot  outside  the  door  that 


*ti 


<n 


morning. 


Loos  167 

"Loaded?"  asked  Bill. 

"Loaded,"  I  lied. 

The  Cockney  lay  down  on  the  roadway, 
stretched  the  rifle  out  in  front,  took  steady  aim, 
and  pulled  the  trigger.  A  slight  click  was  the 
only  response. 

"That's  a  dirty  trick,"  he  growled,  as  we 
roared  with  laughter.  "A  bloomin'  Alleymong 
wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that." 

So  saying  he  pulled  the  bolt  back,  jerked  a 
cartridge  from  the  magazine,  shoved  a  round 
into  the  breech  and  fired.  The  fowl  fluttered  in 
agony  for  a  moment,  then  fell  in  a  heap  on  the 
roadway.    Bill  handed  the  rifle  back  to  me. 

"I'll  cook  that  'en  to-night,"  he  said,  with 
studied  slowness.  "It'll  make  a  fine  feed.  'En 
well  cooked  can't  be  beaten,  and  I'm  damned  if 
you'll  get  one  bone  to  pick!" 

'Bill !"  I  protested. 

'Givin'  me  a  hipe  as  wasn't  loaded  and  sayin* 
it  was,"  he  muttered  sullenly. 

"I  haven't  eaten  a  morsel  of  hen  since  you 
pinched  one  at  Mazingarbe,"  I  said.  "You  re- 
member that.  'Twas  a  damned  smart  piece  of 
work." 


<<~\ 


<'t 


168  The  Great  Pusri 

A  glow  of  pride  suffused  his  face. 

"Well,  if  there's  any  to  spare  to-night  111  let 
you  know,"  said  my  mate.    "Now  I'm  off." 

"There's  a  machine  gun  playing  on  the  road," 
I  called  to  him,  as  he  strolled  off  towards  the 
trench  with  the  hen  under  his  arm.  "You'd  bet- 
ter double  along." 

He  broke  into  a  run,  but  suddenly  stopped 
right  in  the  centre  of  the  danger  zone.  I  could 
hear  the  bullets  rapping  on  the  cobblestones. 

"I'll  tell  yer  when  the  feed's  ready,  Pat,"  he 
called  back.     ".You  can  'ave  'arf  the  'en  for 


>> 


supper. 

Then  he  slid  off  and  disappeared  over  the  rim 
of  the  trench. 


CHAPTER  XII 

RETREAT 

"There's  a  battery  snug  in  the  spinney, 

A  French  'seventy-five'  in  the  mine, 
A  big  'nine-point-two'  in  the  village, 

Three  miles  to  the  rear  of  the  line. 
The  gunners  will  clean  them  at  dawning, 

And  slumber  beside  them  all  day, 
But  the  guns  chant  a  chorus  at  sunset, 

And  then  you  should  hear  what  they  say." 

THE  hour  was  one  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  a  slight  rain  was  now  falling. 
A  dug-out  in  the  bay  leant  wearily  for- 
ward on  its  props;  the  floor  of  the  trench,  foul 
with  blood  and  accumulated  dirt,  showed  a  weary, 
face  to  the  sky.  A  breeze  had  sprung  up,  and 
the  watcher  who  looked  over  the  parapet  was 
met  in  the  face  with  a  soft,  wet  gust  laden  with 
rain  swept  off  the  grassy  spot  in  front.  ...  A 
gaunt  willow  peeped  over  the  sandbags  and 
looked  timorously  down  at  us.  All  the  sandbags 
were  perforated  by  machine-gun  fire,  a  new  gun 

was  hidden  on  the  rise  on  our  right,  but  none  of 

169 


170  The  Great  Push 

our  observers  could  locate  its  position.  On  the 
evening  before  it  had  accounted  for  eighty-seven 
casualties;  from  the  door  of  a  house  in  Loos  I 
had  seen  our  men,  who  had  attempted  to  cross 
the  street,  wiped  out  like  flies. 

Very  heavy  fighting  had  been  going  on  in  the 
front  line  to  the  east  of  Hill  70  all  through  the 
morning.  Several  bomb  attacks  were  made  by 
the  enemy,  and  all  were  repulsed.  For  the  men 
in  the  front  line  trench  the  time  was  very  trying. 
They  had  been  subject  to  continual  bomb  attacks 
since  the  morning  before. 

" 'Ow  long  'ave  we  been  'ere?"  asked  Bill 
Teake,  as  he  removed  a  clot  of  dirt  from  the 
foresight  guard  of  his  rifle.  "I've  lost  all  count 
of  time." 

"Not  such  a  length  of  time,"  I  told  him. 

"Time's  long  a-passin'  'ere,"  said  Bill,  leaning 
his  head  against  the  muddy  parados.  "Gawd, 
I'd  like  to  be  back  in  Les  Brebis  drinkin'  beer, 
or  'avin'  a  bit  of  a  kip  for  a  change.  When  I 
go  back  to  blighty  I'll  go  to  bed  and  I'll  not  get 
up  for  umpty-eleven  months." 

"We  may  get  relieved  to-morrow  night,"  I 
said. 


Retreat  171 

"To-morrow'll  be  another  day  nearer  the  day 
we  get  relieved,  any'ow,"  said  Bill  sarcastically. 
"And  another  day  nearer  the  end  of  the  war," 
he  added. 

"I'm  sick  of  it,"  he  muttered,  after  a  short 
silence.  "I  wish  the  damned  war  was  blurry  well 
finished.  It  gives  me  the  pip.  Curse  the  war! 
Curse  everyone  and  everything!  If  the  Alley- 
mongs  would  come  over  now,  I'd  not  lift  my 
blurry  'ipe.  I'd  surrender;  that's  wot  I'd  do. 
Curse  .   .   .  Damn  .   .  .  Blast  ..." 

I  slipped  to  the  wet  floor  of  the  trench  asleep 
and  lay  there,  only  to  awaken  ten  minutes  later. 
I  awoke  with  a  start;  somebody  jumping  over 
the  parapet  had  planted  his  feet  on  my  stomach. 
I  rose  from  the  soft  earth  and  looked  round.  A 
kilted  soldier  was  standing  in  the  trench,  an  awk- 
ward smile  on  his  face  and  one  of  his  knees 
bleeding.  Bill,  who  was  awake,  was  gazing  at 
the  kiltie  with  wide  open  eyes. 

The  machine  gun  was  speaking  from  the 
enemy's  line,  a  shrewish  tang  in  its  voice,  and 
little  spurts  of  dirt  flicked  from  our  sandbags 
shot  into  the  trench. 

Bill's  eyes  looked  so  large  that  they  surprised 


172  The  Great  PusH 

me;  I  had  never  seen  him  look  in  such  a  way 
before.  What  was  happening?  Several  soldiers 
belonging  to  strange  regiments  were  in  our  trench 
now;  they  were  jumping  over  the  parapet  in  from 
the  open.  One  man  I  noticed  was  a  nigger  in 
khaki.   .    .    . 

''They're  all  from  the  front  trench,"  said  Bill 
in  a  whisper  of  mysterious  significance,  and  a 
disagreeable  sensation  stirred  in  my  being. 

"That  means,"  I  said,  and  paused. 

"It  means  that  the  Allemongs  are  gettin'  the 
best  of  it,"  said  Bill,  displaying  an  unusual  in- 
terest in  the  action  of  his  rifle.  "They  say  the 
2 1  st  and  24th  Division  are  retreating  from  '111 
70.  Too  'ot  up  there.  It's  goin'  to  be  a  blurry 
row  'ere,"  he  muttered.  "But  we're  goin'  to  stick 
'ere,  wotever  'appens.  No  damned  runnin'  away 
with  us!" 

The  trench  was  now  crowded  with  strangers, 
and  others  were  coming  in.  The  field  in  front 
of  our  line  was  covered  with  figures  running  to- 
wards us.  Some  crouched  as  they  ran,  some  tot- 
tered and  fell;  three  or  four  crawled  on  their 
bellies,  and  many  dropped  down  and  lay  where 
they  fell. 


Retreat  173 

The  machine  gun  swept  the  field,  and  a  vicious 
hail  of  shrapnel  swept  impartially  over  the  quick, 
the  wounded  and  the  dead.  A  man  raced  up  to 
the  parapet  which  curved  the  bay  in  which  I 
stood,  a  look  of  terror  on  his  face.  There  he 
stood  a  moment,  a  timorous  foot  on  a  sandbag, 
calculating  the  distance  of  the  jump.  .  .  .  He 
dropped  in,  a  bullet  wound  showing  on  the  back 
of  his  tunic,  and  lay  prostrate,  face  upwards  on 
the  floor  of  the  trench.  A  second  man  jumped  in 
on  the  face  of  the  stricken  man. 

I  hastened  to  help,  but  the  newcomers  pressed 
forward  and  pushed  me  along  the  trench.  No 
heed  was  taken  of  the  wounded  man. 

"Back!  get  back!"  yelled  a  chorus  of  voices. 
:"We've  got  to  retire." 

"'Oo  the  blurry  'ell  said  that?"  I  heard  Bill 
Teake  thunder.  "If  ye're  not  goin'  to  fight,  get 
out  of  this  'ere  place  and  die  in  the  fields.  Run- 
nin'  away,  yer  blasted  cowards !" 

No  one  seemed  to  heed  him.  The  cry  of  "Back ! 
back !"  redoubled  in  violence.  "We've  got  orders 
to  retire !  We  must  get  back  at  once !"  was  the 
shout.    "Make  way  there,  let  us  get  by." 

It  was  almost  impossible  to  stem  the  tide  which 


174  The  Great  Push 

swept  up  the  trench  towards  Loos  Road  where 
the  road  leaves  the  village.  I  had  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  one  of  our  men  rising  on  the  fire 
position  and  gazing  over  the  parapet.  Even  as 
he  looked  a  bullet  hit  him  in  the  face,  and  he 
dropped  back,  clawing  at  the  air  with  his  fin- 
gers. .  .  .  Men  still  crowded  in  from  the  front, 
jumping  on  the  struggling  crush  in  the  trench. 
i.  .  .In  front  of  me  was  a  stranger,  and  in  front 
of  him  was  Rifleman  Pryor,  trying  to  press  back 
against  the  oncoming  men.  A  bullet  ricochetted 
off  a  sandbag  and  hit  the  stranger  on  the  shoul- 
der and  he  fell  face  downwards  to  the  floor.  I 
bent  to  lift  the  wounded  fellow  and  got  pushed  on 
top  of  him. 

"Can  you  help  him?"  Pryor  asked. 

"If  you  can  keep  the  crowd  back,"  I  muttered, 
getting  to  my  feet  and  endeavouring  to  raise 
the  fallen  man. 

Pryor  pulled  a  revolver  from  his  pocket,  lev- 
elled it  at  the  man  behind  me  and  shouted: 

"If  you  come  another  step  further  I'll  put  2i, 
bullet  through  your  head." 

This  sobered  the  soldier  at  the  rear,  who 
steadied  himself  by  placing  his  hand  against  the 


Retreat  175 

traverse.  Then  he  called  to  those  who  followed, 
"Get  back!  there's  a  wounded  man  on  the  floor 
of  the  trench." 

A  momentary  halt  ensued.  Pryor  and  I 
gripped  the  wounded  man,  raised  him  on  the 
parapet  and  pushed  him  into  a  shell-hole  behind 
the  sandbags.  Lying  flat  on  the  ground  up  there 
I  dressed  the  man's  wounds.  Pryor  sat  beside 
me,  fully  exposed  to  the  enemy's  fire,  his  re- 
volver in  his  hand. 

"Down,  Pryor,"  I  said  several  times.  "You'll 
get  hit." 

"Oh,  my  time  hasn't  come  yet,"  he  said.  "I'll 
not  be  done  in  this  time,  anyway.  Fighting  is 
going  on  in  the  front  trench  yet,  and  dozens  of 
men  are  racing  this  way.  Many  of  them  are 
falling.  I  think  some  of  our  boys  are  firing  at 
them,  mistaking  them  for  Germans.  .  .  .  Here's 
our  colonel  coming  along  the  trench." 

The  colonel  was  in  the  trench  when  I  got  back 
there,  exhorting  his  men  to  stand  and  make  a 
fight  of  it.  "Keep  your  backs  to  the  walls,  boys," 
he  said,  "and  fight  to  the  last." 

The  Irish  had  their  back  to  the  wall,  no  man 
deserted  his  post.    The  regiment  at  the  moment 


176  The  Great  PusK 

was  the  backbone  of  the  Loos  front;  if  the  boys 
wavered  and  broke  the  thousands  of  lives  that 
were  given  to  make  a  victory  of  Loos  would  have 
been  lost  in  vain.  Intrepid  little  Bill  Teake,  who 
was  going  to  surrender  to  the  first  German  whom 
he  met,  stood  on  the  banquette,  his  jaw  thrust 
forward  determinedly  and  the  light  of  battle  in 
his  eyes.  Now  and  again  he  turned  round  and 
apostrophised  the  soldiers  who  had  fallen  back 
from  the  front  line. 

"Runnin'  away !"  he  yelled.  "Ugh !  Get  back 
again  and  make  a  fight  of  it.  Go  for  the  Alle- 
mongs  just  like  you's  go  for  rum  rations." 

The  machine  gun  on  the  hill  peppered  Loos 
Road  and  dozens  dropped  there.  The  trench 
crossing  the  road  was  not  more  than  a  few  feet 
deep  at  any  time,  and  a  wagon  which  had  fallen 
in  when  crossing  a  hastily-constructed  bridge  the 
night  before,  now  blocked  the  way.  To  pass 
across  the  men  had  to  get  up  on  the  road,  and 
here  the  machine  gun  found  them ;  and  all  round 
the  wagon  bleeding  bodies  were  lying  three  deep. 

A  young  officer  of  the Regiment,  whose 

men  were  carried  away  in  the  stampede,  stood  on 
the  road  with  a  Webley  revolver  in  his  hand 


Retreat  177 

and  tried  to  urge  his  followers  back  to  the  front 
trench.  "It's  all  a  mistake/'  he  shouted.  "The 
Germans  did  not  advance.  The  order  to  retire 
was  a  false  one.  Back  again;  boys,  get  back. 
Now,  get  back  for  the  regiment's  sake.  If  you 
don't  we'll  be  branded  with  shame.  Come  now, 
make  a  stand  and  I'll  lead  you  back  again." 

Almost  simultaneously  a  dozen  bullets  hit  him 
and  he  fell,  his  revolver  still  in  his  hand.  Bill 
LTeake  procured  the  revolver  at  dusk.  w  .  •. 

Our  guns  came  suddenly  into  play  and  a  hell- 
riot  of  artillery  broke  forth.  Guns  of  all  calibres 
were  brought  into  work,  and  all  spoke  earnestly, 
madly,  the  4:2' s  in  the  emplacement  immediately 
to  rear,  the  9*2's  back  at  Maroc,  and  our  big 
giants,  the  caterpillar  howitzers,  away  behind 
further  still.  Gigantic  shells  swung  over  our 
heads,  laughing,  moaning,  whistling,  hooting, 
yelling.  We  could  see  them  passing  high  up  in 
air,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  beer  bottles 
flung  from  a  juggler's  hand.  The  messengers  of 
death  came  from  everywhere  and  seemed  to  be 
everywhere. 

The  spinney  on  the  spur  was  churned,  shiv- 
ered,  blown   to   pieces.      Trees   uprooted   rose 


178  The  Great  Push 

twenty  yards  in  the  air,  paused  for  a  moment  to 
take  a  look  round,  as  it  were,  when  at  the  zenith 
of  their  flight,  then  sank  slowly,  lazily  to  earth 
as  if  selecting  a  spot  to  rest  upon.  Two  red- 
brick cottages  with  terra-cotta  tiles  which  snug- 
gled amidst  the  trees  were  struck  simultaneously, 
and  they  went  up  in  little  pieces,  save  where  one 
rafter  rose  hurriedly  over  the  smoke  and  swayed, 
a  clearly  defined  black  line,  in  mid-air.  Coming 
down  abruptly  it  found  a  resting  place  on  the 
branches  of  the  trees.  One  of  the  cottages  held 
a  German  gun  and  gunners.  .  .  .  Smoke,  dust, 
lyddite  fumes  robed  the  autumn-tinted  trees  on 
the  crest,  the  concussion  shells  burst  into  lurid 
flame,  the  shrapnel  shells  puffed  high  in  air,  and 
their  white,  ghostly  smoke  paled  into  the  over- 
cast heavens. 

The  retreat  was  stopped  for  a  moment.     The 

Regiment  recovered  its  nerve  and  fifty  or 

sixty  men  rushed  back.  Our  boys  cheered.  .  .  ., 
But  the  renewed  vitality  was  short-lived.  A  hail 
of  shrapnel  caught  the  party  in  the  field  and 
many  of  them  fell.  The  nigger  whom  I  had  no- 
ticed earlier  came  running  back,  his  teeth  chat- 
tering, and  flung  himself  into  the  trench.    He  lay 


Retreat  179 

on  the  floor  and  refused  to  move  until  Bill  Teake 
gave  him  a  playful  prod  with  a  bayonet.  Our 
guns  now  spoke  boisterously,  and  the  German 
trenches  on  the  hill  were  being  blown  to  little 
pieces.  Dug-outs  were  rioting,  piecemeal,  in  airr 
parapets  were  crumbling  hurriedly  in  and  bury- 
ing the  men  in  the  trench,  bombs  spun  lazily  in 
air,  and  the  big  caterpillar  howitzers  flung  their 
projectiles  across  with  a  loud  whoop  of  tumult. 
Our  thousand  and  one  guns  were  bellowing  their 
terrible  anthem  of  hate. 

Pryor  stood  on  the  fire-step,  his  bayonet  in 
one  hand,  an  open  tin  of  bully-beef  in  the  other. 

"There's  no  damned  attack  on  at  all,"  he  said. 

"A  fresh  English  regiment  came  up  and  the 

got  orders  to  retire  for  a  few  hundred  yards  to 
make  way  for  them.  Then  there  was  some  con- 
fusion, a  telephone  wire  got  broken,  the  retire- 
ment became  a  retreat.  A  strategic  retreat,  of 
course,"  said  Pryor  sarcastically,  and  pointed  at 
the  broken  wagon  on  the  Loos  Road.  "A  stra- 
tegic retreat,"  he  muttered,  and  munched  a  piece 
of  beef  which  he  lifted  from  the  tin  with  his 
fingers. 

The  spinney  on  which  we  had  gazed  so  often 


180  The  Great  Push 

now  retained  its  unity  no  longer,  the  brick  houses 
were  gone;  the  lyddite  clouds  took  on  strange 
forms  amidst  the  greenery,  glided  towards  one 
another  in  a  graceful  waltz,  bowed,  touched  tips, 
retired  and  paled  away  weary  as  it  seemed  of 
their  fantastic  dance.  Other  smoke  bands  of 
ashen  hue  intermixed  with  ragged,  bilious-yellow 
fragments  of  cloud  rose  in  the  air  and  disap- 
peared in  the  leaden  atmosphere.  Little  wisps 
of  vapour  like  feathers  of  some  gigantic  bird  de- 
tached themselves  from  the  horrible,  diffused 
glare  of  bursting  explosives,  floated  towards  our 
parapet,  and  the  fumes  of  poisonous  gases  caused 
us  to  gasp  for  breath.  The  shapelessness  of  De- 
struction reigned  on  the  hill,  a  fitting  accompani- 
ment to  the  background  of  cloudy  sky,  dull,  dark 
and  wan. 

Strange  contrasts  were  evoked  on  the  crest, 
monstrous  heads  rose  over  the  spinney,  elephants 
bearing  ships,  Vikings,  bearded  and  savage,  be- 
ings grotesque  and  gigantic  took  shape  in  the 
smoke  and  lyddite  fumes. 

The  terrible  assault  continued  without  truce, 
interruption  or  respite;  our  guns  scattered  broad- 
cast with  prodigal  indifference  their  apparently 


Retreat  181 

inexhaustible  resources  of  murder  and  terror. 
The  essence  of  the  bombardment  was  in  the  furi- 
ous succession  of  its  blows.  In  the  clamour  and 
tumult  was  the  crash  and  uproar  of  a  vast  bub- 
bling cauldron  forged  and  heated  by  the  gods  in 
ungodly  fury. 

The  enemy  would  reply  presently.  Through 
the  uproar  I  could  hear  the  premonitory  whisper- 
ing of  his  guns  regulating  their  range  and  feel- 
ing for  an  objective.  A  concussion  shell  whis- 
tled across  the  traverse  in  which  I  stood  and  in 
futile  rage  dashed  itself  to  pieces  on  the  level 
field  behind.  Another  followed,  crying  like  a 
child  in  pain,  and  finished  its  short,  drunken 
career  by  burrowing  into  the  red  clay  of  the 
parados  where  it  failed  to  explode.  It  passed 
close  to  my  head,  and  fear  went  down  into  the 
innermost  parts  of  me  and  held  me  for  a  mo- 
ment. ...  A  dozen  shells  passed  over  in  the 
next  few  moments,  rushing  ahead  as  if  they  were 
pursued  by  something  terrible,  and  burst  in  the 
open  a  hundred  yards  away.  Then  a  livid  flash 
lit  a  near  dug-out;  lumps  of  earth,  a  dozen  beams 
and  several  sandbags  changed  their  locality,  and 
a  man  was  killed  by  concussion.    When  the  body 


*82  The  Great  PusK 

was  examined  no  trace  of  a  wound  could  be  seen. 
Up  the  street  of  Loos  was  a  clatter  and  tumult. 
A  house  was  flung  to  earth,  making  a  noise  like 
a  statue  falling  downstairs  in  a  giant's  castle; 
iron  girders  at  the  coal-mine  were  wrenched  and 
tortured,  and  the  churchyard  that  bordered  our 
trench  had  the  remnants  of  its  headstones  flung 
about  and  its  oft  muddled  graves  dug  anew  by 
the  shells. 

The  temporary  bridge  across  the  trench  where 
it  intersected  the  road,  made  the  night  before  to 
allow  ammunition  limbers  to  pass,  was  blown  sky 
high,  and  two  men  who  sheltered  under  it  were 
killed.  Earth,  splinters  of  wood  and  bits  of 
masonry  were  flung  into  the  trench,  and  it  was 
wise  on  our  part  to  lie  on  the  floor  or  press  close 
to  the  parapet.  One  man,  who  was  chattering 
a  little,  tried  to  sing,  but  became  silent  when  a 
comrade  advised  him  "to  hold  his  row;  if  the 
Germans  heard  the  noise  they  might  begin  shel- 
ling." 

The  gods  were  thundering.  At  times  the 
sound  dwarfed  me  into  such  infinitesimal  little- 
ness that  a  feeling  of  security  was  engendered. 
In  the  midst  of  such  an  uproar  and  tumult,  I 


Retreat  183 

thought  that  the  gods,  bent  though  they  were 
upon  destruction,  would  leave  such  a  little  atom 
as  myself  untouched.  This  for  a  while  would 
give  me  a  self-satisfied  confidence  in  my  own  in- 
vulnerability. 

At  other  times  my  being  swelled  to  the  grand 
chorus.  I  was  one  with  it,  at  home  in  thunder. 
I  accommodated  myself  to  the  Olympian  uproar 
and  shared  in  a  play  that  would  have  delighted 
Jove  and  Mars.  I  had  got  beyond  that  mean 
where  the  soul  of  a  man  swings  like  a  pendulum 
from  fear  to  indifference,  and  from  indifference 
to  fear.  In  danger  I  am  never  indifferent,  but 
I  find  that  I  can  readily  adapt  myself  to  the 
moods  and  tempers  of  my  environment.  But 
all  men  have  some  restraining  influence  to  help 
them  in  hours  of  trial,  some  principle  or  some 
illusion.  Duty,  patriotism,  vanity,  and  dreams 
come  to  the  help  of  men  in  the  trenches,  all  illu- 
sions probably,  ephemeral  and  fleeting;  but  for 
a  man  who  is  as  ephemeral  and  fleeting  as  his 
illusions  are,  he  can  lay  his  back  against  them 
and  defy  death  and  the  terrors  of  the  world. 
But  let  him  for  a  moment  stand  naked  and  look 


1 84  The  Great  Push 

at  the  staring  reality  of  the  terrors  that  engirt 
him  and  he  becomes  a  raving  lunatic. 

The  cannonade  raged  for  three  hours,  then 
ceased  with  the  suddenness  of  a  stone  falling  to 
earth,  and  the  ordeal  was  over. 

As  the  artillery  quietened  the  men  who  had 
just  come  into  our  trench  plucked  up  courage 
again  and  took  their  way  back  to  the  front  line 
of  trenches,  keeping  well  under  the  cover  of  the 
houses  in  Loos.  In  twenty  minutes'  time  we 
were  left  to  ourselves,  nothing  remained  of  those 
who  had  come  our  way  save  their  wounded  and 
their  dead;  the  former  we  dressed  and  carried 
into  the  dressing-station,  the  latter  we  buried 
when  night  fell. 

The  evening  came,  and  the  greyish  light  of  the 
setting  sun  paled  away  in  a  western  sky,  leaden- 
hued  and  dull.  The  dead  men  lying  out  in  the 
open  became  indistinguishable  in  the  gathering 
darkness.  A  deep  silence  settled  over  the  village, 
the  roadway  and  trench,  and  with  the  quiet  came 
fear.  I  held  my  breath.  What  menace  did  the 
dark  world  contain?  What  threat  did  the  ghostly 
star-shells,  rising  in  air  behind  the  Twin  Towers, 
breathe  of?    Men,  like  ghosts,  stood  on  the  ban- 


Retreat  185 

quettes  waiting,  it  seemed,  for  something  to  take 
place.  There  was  no  talking,  no  laughter.  The 
braziers  were  still  unlit,  and  the  men  had  not 
eaten  for  many  hours.  But  none  set  about  to 
prepare  a  meal.  It  seemed  as  if  all  were  afraid 
to  move  lest  the  least  noise  should  awake  the 
slumbering  Furies.  The  gods  were  asleep  and  it 
was  unwise  to  disturb  them.  .  .  ..• 

A  limber  clattered  up  the  road  and  rations 
were  dumped  down  at  the  corner  of  the  village 
street. 

"I  'ope  they've  brought  the  rum,"  somebody 
remarked,  and  we  all  laughed  boisterously.  The 
spell  was  broken,  and  already  my  mate,  Bill 
Teake,  had  applied  a  match  to  a  brazier  and  a, 
little  flame  glowed  at  the  corner  of  a  traverse. 
Now  was  the  moment  to  cook  the  hen  which  he 
had  shot  that  morning. 

As  he  bent  over  his  work,  someone  coming 
along  the  trench  stumbled  against  him,  and 
nearly  threw  Bill  into  the  fire. 

"  'Oo  the  blurry  'ell  is  that  shovin'  about," 
spluttered  Teake,  rubbing  the  smoke  from  his 
eyes  and  not  looking  round. 

'It's  the  blurry  Colonel  of  the  London  Irish," 


<<i 


186  The  Great  PusK 

a  voice  replied,  and  Bill  shot  up  to  attention  and 
saluted  his  commanding  officer. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  said. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  the  officer.  "If  I  was  in 
your  place,  I  might  have  said  worse  things." 

Bill  recounted  the  incident  afterwards  and  con- 
cluded by  saying,  "  'E's  a  fine  bloke,  'e  is,  our 
CO.     I'd  do  anythink  for  him  now." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A   PRISONER   OF   WAR 

A  star-shell  holds  the  sky  beyond 
Shell-shivered  Loos,  and  drops 

In  million  sparkles  on  a  pond 
That  lies  by  Hulluch  copse. 

A  moment's  brightness  in  the  sky, 

To  vanish  at  a  breath, 
And  die  away,  as  soldiers  die 

Upon  the  wastes  of  death. 

THERE'LL  be  some  char  (tea)  in  a  min- 
ute," said  Bill,  as  he  slid  over  the  para- 
pet into  the  trench.  "I've  got  some  cake, 
a  tin  of  sardines  and  a  box  of  cigars,  fat  ones." 
"You've  been  at  a  dead  man's  pack,"  I  said. 
"The  dead  don't  need  nuffink,"  said  Bill. 
It  is  a  common  practice  with  the  troops  after 
a  charge  to  take  food  from  the  packs  of  their 
fallen  comrades.     Such  actions  are  inevitable; 
when  crossing  the  top,  men  carry  very  little,  for 
too  much  weight  is  apt  to  hamper  their  move- 
ments. 

187 


i88.  [The  Great  PusK 

Transports  coming  along  new  roads  are  liable 
to  delay,  and  in  many  cases  they  get  blown  out 
of  existence  altogether.  When  rations  arrive, 
if  they  arrive,  they  are  not  up  to  the  usual  stand- 
ard, and  men  would  go  hungry  if  death  did  not 
come  in  and  help  them.  As  it  happens,  how- 
ever, soldiers  feed  well  after  a  charge. 

Bill  lit  a  candle  in  the  German  dug-out,  applied 
a  match  to  a  brazier  and  placed  his  mess-tin  on 
the  flames.  The  dug-out  with  its  flickering  taper 
gave  me  an  idea  of  cosiness,  coming  in  as  I  did 
,'from  the  shell-scarred  village  and  its  bleak  cob- 
bled streets.  To  sit  down  here  on  a  sandbag 
^(Bill  had  used  the  wooden  seats  for  a  fire)  where 
men  had  to  accommodate  themselves  on  a  pigmy 
scale,  was  very  comfortable  and  reassuring.  The 
light  of  the  candle  and  brazier  cast  a  spell  of 
subtle  witchery  on  the  black  walls  and  the  bay- 
onets gleaming  against  the  roof,  but  despite  this, 
innumerable  shadows  lurked  in  the  corners,  hold- 
ing some  dark  council. 

"Ha!"  said  Bill,  red  in  the  face  from  his  exer- 
tions over  the  fire.  "There's  the  water  singin' 
in  the  mess-tin;  it'll  soon  be  dancin'." 

.The  water  began  to  splutter  merrily  as  he 


A  Prisoner  of  War  189 

spoke,  and  he  emptied  the  tea  on  the  tin  which  he 
lifted  from  the  brazier  with  his  bayonet.  From 
his  pack  he  brought  forth  a  loaf  and  cut  it  into 
good  thick  slices. 

"Now  some  sardines,  and  we're  as  comfy  as 
kings,"  he  muttered.  "We'll  'ave  a  meal  fit  for 
a  gentleman,  any  gentleman  in  the  land." 

"What  sort  of  meal  is  fit  for  a  gentleman?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh!  a  real  good  proper  feed,"  said  Bill. 
"Suthin'  that  fills  the  guts." 

The  meal  was  fit  for  a  gentleman  indeed;  in 
turn  we  drank  the  tea  from  the  mess-tin  and 
lifted  the  sardines  from  the  tin  with  our  fingers; 
we  had  lost  our  forks  as  well  as  most  of  our, 
equipment. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  now?"  asked  Bill, 
when  we  had  finished. 

"I  don't  know  that  there's  anything  to  be  done 
in  my  job,"  I  said.  "All  the  wounded  have  been 
taken  in  from  here." 

"There's  no  water  to  be  got,"  said  Bill. 
"There's  a  pump  in  the  street,  but  nobody  knows 
whether  it's  poisoned  or  not.  The  nearest  well 
that's  safe  to  drink  from  is  at  Maroc." 


190  The  Great  Push 

"Is  there  a  jar  about?"  I  asked  Bill,  and  he 
unearthed  one  from  the  corner  of  his  jacket. 
"I'll  go  to  Maroc  and  bring  up  a  jar  of  water," 
I  said.  'Til  get  back  by  midnight,  if  I'm  not 
strafed." 

I  went  out  on  the  road.  The  night  had  cleared 
and  was  now  breezy;  the  moon  rode  high 
amongst  scurrying  clouds,  the  trees  in  the  fields 
were  harassed  by  a  tossing  motion  and  leant  to- 
wards the  village  as  if  seeking  to  get  there.  The 
grasses  shivered,  agitated  and  helpless,  and  be- 
hind the  Twin  Towers  of  Loos  the  star-shells 
burst  into  many-coloured  flames  and  showed  like 
a  summer  flower-garden  against  the  sky.  A 
windmill,  with  one  wing  intact,  stood  out,  a 
ghostly  phantom,  on  a  rise  overlooking  Hulluch. 

The  road  to  Maroc  was  very  quiet  and  almost 
deserted;  the  nightly  traffic  had  not  yet  begun, 
and  the  nightly  connonade  was  as  yet  merely 
fumbling  for  an  opening.  The  wrecks  of  the 
previous  days  were  still  lying  there;  long-eared 
mules  immobile  in  the  shafts  of  shattered  limbers, 
dead  Highlanders  with  their  white  legs  showing 
wan  in  the  moonlight,  boys  in  khaki  with  their 
faces  pressed  tightly  against  the  cobblestones, 


A  Prisoner  of  War  191 

broken  wagons,  discarded  stretchers,  and  dere- 
lict mailbags  with  their  rain-sodden  parcels  and 
letters  from  home. 

Many  wounded  were  still  lying  out  in  the  fields. 
I  could  hear  them  calling  for  help  and  groaning. 

"How  long  had  they  lain  there?"  I  asked  my- 
self.   "Two  days,  probably.    Poor  devils!" 

I  walked  along,  the  water  jar  knocking  against 
my  legs.  My  heart  was  filled  with  gloom.  "What 
is  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  I  queried.  "This 
wastage,  this  hell?" 

A  white  face  peered  up  at  me  from  a  ditch 
by  the  roadside,  and  a  weak  voice  whispered, 
"Matey !" 

"What  is  it,  chummy  ?"  I  queried,  coming  close 
to  the  wounded  man. 

"Can  you  get  me  in?"  he  asked.  "I've  been 
out  for — oh !  I  don't  know  how  long,"  he  moaned. 

"Where  are  you  wounded?"  I  asked. 

"I  got  a  dose  of  shrapnel,  matey,"  he  said. 
"One  bullet  caught  me  in  the  heel,  another  in  the 
shoulder." 

"Has  anybody  dressed  the  wounds?"  I  asked. 

"Aye,  aye,"  he  answered.  "Somebody  did, 
then  went  off  and  left  me  here." 


192  The  Great  Push 

"Do  you  think  you  could  grip  me  tightly  round 
the  shoulders  if  I  put  you  on  my  back?"  I  said. 
"I'll  try  and  carry  you  in." 

"We'll  give  it  a  trial,"  said  the  man  in  a  glad 
voice,  and  I  flung  the  jar  aside  and  hoisted  him 
on  my  back. 

Already  I  was  worn  out  with  having  had  no 
sleep  for  two  nights,  and  the  man  on  my  back 
was  heavy.  For  awhile  I  tried  to  walk  upright, 
but  gradually  my  head  came  nearer  the  ground. 

"I  can't  go  any  further,"  I  said  at  last,  coming 
to  a  bank  on  the  roadside  and  resting  my  burden. 
"I  feel  played  out.  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  any  help. 
There's  a  party  of  men  working  over  there.  I'll 
try  and  get  a  few  to  assist  me. 

The  man  lay  back  on  the  grass  and  did  not 
answer.    Probably  he  had  lost  consciousness. 

A  Scotch  regiment  was  at  work  in  the  field, 
digging  trenches ;  I  approached  an  officer,  a  dark, 
low  set  man  with  a  heavy  black  moustache. 

"Could  you  give  me  some  men  to  assist  me  to 
carry  in  wounded?"  I  asked.  "On  each  side  of 
the  road  there  are  dozens " 

"Can't  spare  any  men,"  said  the  officer. 
"Haven't  enough  for  the  work  here." 


A ^Prisoner  of  War  193 


tc\ 


'Many  of  your  own  countrymen  are  out 
there,"  I  said. 

''Can't  help  it,"  said  the  man.  "We  all  have 
plenty  of  work  here." 

I  glanced  at  the  man's  shoulder  and  saw  that 
he  belonged  to  "The  Lone  Star  Crush";  he  was 
a  second-lieutenant.  Second-lieutenants  fight 
well,  but  lack  initiative. 

A  captain  was  directing  work  near  at  hand, 
and  I  went  up  to  him. 

"I'm  a  stretcher-bearer,"  I  said.  "The  fields 
round  here  are  crowded  with  wounded  who  have 
been  lying  out  for  ever  so  long.  I  should  like 
to  take  them  into  the  dressing-station.  Could  you 
give  me  some  men  to  help  me?" 

"Do  you  come  from  the  Highlands?"  asked 
the  captain. 

-"No,  I  come  from  Ireland,"  I  said. 

"Oh!"  said  the  officer;  then  inquired:  "How 
many  men  do  you  want?" 

"As  many  as  you  can  spare." 

"Will  twenty  do?"  I  was  asked. 

I  went  down  the  road  in  charge  of  twenty  men, 
stalwart  Highlanders,  massive  of  shoulder  and 
jthew,  and  set  about  collecting  the  wounded.  Two 


194  The  Great  PusK 

doors,  a  barrow  and  a  light  cart  were  procured^ 
and  we  helped  the  stricken  men  on  these  convey- 
ances. Some  men  were  taken  away  across  the 
Highlanders'  shoulders,  and  some  who  were  not 
too  badly  hurt  limped  in  with  one  man  to  helpi 
each  case.  The  fellow  whom  I  left  lying  by  the 
roadside  was  placed  on  a  door  and  borne  away.: 

I  approached  another  officer,  a  major  this  time, 
and  twelve  men  were  handed  over  to  my  care; 
again  six  men  were  found  and  finally  eight  who 
set  about  their  work  like  Trojans. 

My  first  twenty  returned  with  wheeled  and 
hand  stretchers,  and  scoured  the  fields  near  Loos. 
By  dawn  fifty- three  wounded  soldiers  were  taken 
in  by  the  men  whom  I  got  to  assist  me,  and  I 
made  my  way  back  to  the  trench  with  a  jar 
full  of  water.  Wild,  vague,  and  fragmentary 
thoughts  rioted  through  my  mind,  and  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  wonderful  exhilaration.  I  was  so 
pleased  with  myself  that  I  could  dance  along  the 
road  and  sing  with  pure  joy.  Whether  the  mood 
was  brought  about  by  my  success  in  obtaining 
men  or  saving  wounded  I  could  not  determine- 
Anyhow,  I  did  not  attempt  to  analyse  the  mood; 


A  Prisoner  of  War  195 

I  was  happy  and  I  was  alive,  with  warm  blood 
palpitating  joyously  through  my  veins. 

I  found  a  full  pack  lying  in  the  road  beside  a 
dead  mule  which  lay  between  the  shafts  of  a 
limber.  The  animal's  ears  stuck  perkily  up  like 
birds  on  a  fence. 

In  the  pack  I  found  an  overcoat,  a  dozen  bars 
of  chocolate,  and  a  piece  of  sultana  cake. 

I  crossed  the  field.  The  darkness  hung  heavy 
as  yet,  and  it  was  difficult  to  pick  one's  way. 
Now  I  dropped  into  a  shell-hole  and  fell  flat  on 
my  face,  and  again  my  feet  got  entangled  in  lines 
of  treacherous  trip-wire,  and  I  went  headlong. 

"Halt !" 

I  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  fear, 

and  stopped  short  a  few  inches  from  the  point  of 

1 

S  bayonet.  Staring  into  the  darkness  I  discerned 

|He  man  who  had  ordered  me  to  halt.    One  knee 

[was  on  the  ground,  and  a  white  hand  clutched 

the   rifle  barrel.     I  could  hear  him  breathing 

heavily. 

"What's  wrong  with  you,  man  ?"  I  asked. 

"  'Oo  are  yer  ?"  inquired  the  sentry. 

"A  London  Irish  stretcher-bearer,"  I  said. 


'196  The  Great  PusK 

"Why  are  yer  comin'  through  our  lines  ?"  asked 
the  sentry. 

"I'm  just  going  back  to  the  trench,"  I  said. 
"I've  been  taking  a  wounded  man  down  to 
Maroc." 

"To  where?"  asked  the  man  with  the  bayonet. 

"Oh !  it  seems  as  if  you  don't  know  this  place," 
I  said.    "Are  you  new  to  this  part  of  the  world?" 

The  man  made  no  answer,  he  merely  shoved 
his  bayonet  nearer  my  breast  and  whistled  softly. 
As  if  in  reply  to  this  signal,  two  forms  took  shape 
in  the  darkness  and  approached  the  sentry. 

"What's  wrong?"  asked  one  of  the  newcomers. 

-"This  'ere  bloke  comes  up  just  now,"  said  the 
sentry,  pointing  the  bayonet  at  my  face.  "  'E 
began  to  ask  me  questions  and  I  'ad  my  sus- 
picions, so  I  whistled." 

"That's  right,"  said  one  of  the  newcomers, 
rubbing  a  thoughtful  hand  over  the  bayonet 
which  he  carried;  then  he  turned  to  me.  "Come 
along  wiv  us,"  he  said,  and,  escorted  by  the  two 
soldiers,  I  made  my  way  across  the  field  towards 
a  ruined  building  which  was  raked  at  intervals 
by  the  German  artillery.  The  field  was  peopled 
Math  soldiers  lying  flat  on  waterproof  sheets, 


A  Prisoner  of  War  197 

and  many  of  the  men  were  asleep.  None  had 
been  there  in  the  early  part  of  the  night. 

An  officer,  an  elderly  man  with  a  white  mous- 
tache, sat  under  the  shade  of  the  building  hold- 
ing an  electric  lamp  in  one  hand  and  writing  in 
a  notebook  with  the  other.  We  came  to  a  halt 
opposite  him. 

"What  have  you  here?"  he  asked,  looking  at 
one  of  my  captors. 

"We  found  this  man  inquiring  what  regiment 
was  here  and  if  it  had  just  come,"  said  the  soldier 
on  my  right  who,  by  the  stripes  on  his  sleeve,  I 
perceived  was  a  corporal.  "He  aroused  our  sus- 
picions and  we  took  him  prisoner." 

"What  is  your  name  ?"  asked  the  officer,  turn- 
ing to  me. 

I  told  him.  As  I  spoke  a  German  shell  whizzed 
over  our  heads  and  burst  about  three  hundred 
yards  to  rear.  The  escort  and  the  officer  went 
flop  to  earth  and  lay  there  for  the  space  of  a 
second. 

"You  don't  need  to  duck,"  I  said.  "That  shell 
burst  half  a  mile  away." 

"Is  that  so?"  asked  the  officer,  getting  to  his 
[feet.  "I  thought  it Oh!  what's  your  name?" 


•198  The  Great  Push 

I  told  him  my  name  the  second  time. 

"That's  your  real  name?"  he  queried. 

I  assured  him  that  it  was,  but  my  assurance 
was  lost,  for  a  second  shell  rioted  overhead,  and 
the  escort  and  officer  went  again  flop  to  the  cold 
ground. 

"That  shell  has  gone  further  than  the  last/' 
I  said  to  the  prostrate  figures.  "The  Germans] 
are  shelling  the  road  on  the  right;  it's  a  pastimei 
of  theirs." 

"Is  that  so?"  asked  the  officer,  getting  to  hisi 
feet  again.  Then,  hurriedly,  "What's  your  regi- 
ment?" 

Before  I  had  time  to  reply,  three  more  pris- 
oners were  taken  in  under  escort;  I  recognisecl 
Pryor  as  one  of  them.  He  carried  a  jar  of  water 
in  his  hand. 

"Who  are  these?"  asked  the  officer. 

"They  came  up  to  the  sentry  and  asked  ques- 
tions about  the  regiment,"  said  the  fresh  escort. 
"The  sentry's  suspicions  were  aroused  and  he 
signalled  to  us,  and  we  came  forward  and  ar- 
rested these  three  persons." 

The  officer  looked  at  the  prisoners. 

"What  are  your  names,  your  regiments?"  He] 


A  Prisoner  of  War  199 


asked.   "Answer  quickly.  I've  no  time  to  waste." 

"May  I  answer,  sir?"  I  asked. 

"What  have  you  to  say?"  inquired  the  officer. 

"Hundreds  of  men  cross  this  field  nightly," 
J  said.  '"Working-parties,  ration-fatigues, 
stretcher-bearers  and  innumerable  others  cross 
Here.  They're  going  up  and  down  all  night.  By 
the  way  you  duck  when  a  shell  passes  high  above 
you,  I  judge  that  you  have  just  come  out  here. 
If  you  spend  your  time  taking  prisoners  all  who 
break  through  your  line"  (two  fresh  prisoners 
were  brought  in  as  I  spoke)  "you'll  be  busy  ask- 
ing English  soldiers  questions  till  dawn.  I  hope 
I  don't  offend  you  in  telling  you  this." 

The  officer  was  deep  in  though,  for  a  moment; 
then  he  said  to  me,  "Thanks  very  much,  you  can 
return  to  your  battalion."  I  walked  away.  As 
I  went  off  I  heard  the  officer  speak  to  the  escorts. 

"You'd  better  release  these  men,"  he  said.  "I 
find  this  field  is  a  sort  of  public  thoroughfare." 

A  brigade  was  camped  in  the  field,  I  discov- 
ered. The  next  regiment  I  encountered  took  me 
prisoner  also;  but  a  few  shells  dropped  near  at 
hand  and  took  up  the  attention  of  my  captor  for 
a  moment.    This  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be 


>r> — -'  — 

200  The  Great  Push 

missed ;  I  simply  walked  away  from  bondage  and 
sought  the  refuge  of  my  own  trench. 

"Thank  goodness,"  I  said,  as  I  slid  over  the 
parapet.    "I'll  have  a  few  hours'  sleep  now." 

But  there  was  no  rest  for  me.  A  few  of  our 
men,  weary  of  the  monotony  of  the  dug-out,  had 
crept  up  to  the  German  trench,  where  they 
amused  themselves  by  flinging  bombs  on  the 
enemy.    As  if  they  had  not  had  enough  fighting! 

On  my  return  they  were  coming  back  in  cer- 
tain stages  of  demolition.  One  with  a  bullet  in 
his  foot,  another  with  a  shell-splinter  in  his 
cheek,  and  a  third  without  a  thumb. 

These  had  to  be  dressed  and  taken  into  Maroc 
before  dawn. 

A  stretcher-bearer  at  the  front  has  little  of 
the  excitement  of  war,  and  weary  hours  of  dull 
work  come  his  way  when  the  excitement  is  over. 


CHAPTER  XIV, 


THE   CHAPLAIN 


The  moon  looks  down  upon  a  ghost-like  figure, 

Delving  a  furrow  in  the  cold,  damp  sod, 
The  grave  is  ready,  and  the  lonely  digger 
Leaves  the  departed  to  their  rest  and  God. 
I  shape  a  little  cross  and  plant  it  deep 
To  mark  the  dug-out  where  my  comrades  sleep. 

I    WISH   I   was   in   the   Ladies'   Volunteer 
Corps/'  said  Bill  Teake  next  day,  as  he 
sat  on  the  fire-step  of  the  trench  and  looked 
at  the  illustrated  daily  which  had  been  used  in 
packing  a  parcel  from  home. 
"Why?"  I  asked. 

"They  were  in  bathing  last  week,"  said  Teake. 
"Their  picture  is  here;  fine  girls  they  are,  too! 
Oh,  blimey!"  Bill  exclaimed  as  he  glanced  at  the 
date  on  the  paper.    "This  'ere  photo  was  took  last 

June." 

"And  this  is   the  28th  of  September,"   said 

Pryor. 

We  needed  a  rest  now,  but  we  still  were  in 

201 


202  The  Great  Push 

the  trenches  by  the  village,  holding  on  and  hop- 
ing that  fresh  troops  would  come  up  and  relieve 
us. 

"Anything  about  the  war  in  that  paper,  Bill?" 
someone  asked. 

"Nuthin'  much,"  Bill  answered.    "The  Bishop 

of  says  this  is  a  'oly  war.  .    .    .  Blimey, 

Vs  talkin'  through  'is  'at.  'Oly,  indeed,  it's  'oly 
'ell.  D'ye  mind  when  'e  came  out  'ere,  this  'ere 
Bishop,  an'  told  us  'e  carried  messages  from  our 
wives,  our  fathers  an'  mothers.  If  I  was  a  mar- 
ried bloke  I'd  'ave  arst  'im  wot  did  'e  mean  by 
takin'  messages  from  my  old  woman." 

"You  interpreted  the  good  man's  remarks  lit- 
erally," said  Pryor,  lighting  a  cigarette.  "That 
was  wrong.  His  remarks  were  bristling  with 
metaphors.  He  spoke  as  a  man  of  God  so  that 
none  could  understand  him.  He  said,  as  far  as 
I  can  remember,  that  we  could  face  death  without 
fear  if  we  were  forgiven  men;  that  it  was  wise^ 
to  get  straight  with  God,  and  the  blood  of  Christ 
would  wash  our  sins  away,  and  all  the  rest  of 
it." 

"Stow  it,  yer  bloomin'  fool,"  said  Bill  Teake. 
"Yer  don't  know  what  yer  jawin'  about.    S'pose 


The  CHaplairi  203 

a  bishop  'as  got  ter  make  a  livin'  like  ev'ryone 
else;  an'  'e's  got  ter  work  for  it.  'Ere's  some- 
thin'  about  parsons  in  this  paper.  One  is  askin' 
if  a  man  in  'oly  Orders  should  take  up  arms  or 
not." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Pryor.  "If  the  parsons 
take  up  arms,  who'll  comfort  the  women  at  home 
when  we're  gone?" 

"The  slackers  will  comfort  them,"  some  one 
remarked.  "I've  a  great  respect  for  slackers. 
They'll  marry  our  sweethearts  when  we're  dead." 

"We  hear  nothing  of  a  curates'  regiment,"  I 
said.  "In  a  Holy  War  young  curates  should 
lead  the  way." 

"They'd  make  damned  good  bomb  throwers," 
said  Bill. 

"Would  they  swear  when  making  a  charge?" 
I  inquired. 

"They  wouldn't  beat  us  at  that,"  said  Bill. 

"The  holy  line  would  go  praying  down  to  die," 
parodied  Pryor,  and  added :  "A  chaplain  may  be 
a  good  fellow,  you  know." 

"It's  a  woman's  job,"  said  Bill  Teake. 
"Blimey !  s'pose  women  did  come  out  'ere  to  com- 
fort us,  I  wouldn't  'arf  go  mad  with  joy.     I'd 


204  TKe  Great  PusK 

give  my  last  fag,  I'd  give — oh!  anything  to  see 
i  the  face  of  an  English  girl  now.  .  .  .  They  say 
in  the  papers  that  hactresses  come  out  'ere.  We've 
never  seen  one,  'ave  we?" 

"Actresses  never  come  out  here,"  said  Pryor. 
"They  give  a  performance  miles  back  to  the 
R.A.M.C.,  Army  Service  Corps,  and  Mechanical 
Transport  men,  but  for  us  poor  devils  in  the 
trenches  there  is  nothing  at  all,  not  even  decent 
pay." 

"Wot's  the  reason  that  the  more  danger  men 
go  into  the  less  their  pay?"  asked  Teake.  "The 
further  a  man's  back  from  the  trenches  the  more 
'e  gets." 

"Mechanical  Transport  drivers  have  a  trade 
that  takes  a  long  apprenticeship,"  said  Pryor. 
"Years  perhaps " 

"'Aven't  we  a  trade,  too?"  asked  Bill.  "A 
damned  dangerous  trade,  the  most  dangerous  in 
the  world?" 

"What's  this?"  I  asked,  peeping  over  the  para- 
dos to  the  road  in  our  rear.  "My  God !  there's  a 
transport  wagon  going  along  the  road !" 

"Blimey!  you're  sprucing,"  said  Bill,  peeping 
over ;  then  his  eye  fell  on  a  wagon  drawn  by  two 


THe  CKaplaiii  205 

mules  going  along  the  highway.  "Oh,  the  damned 
fools,  goin'  up  that  way.    They'll  not  get  far." 

The  enemy  occupied  a  rise  on  our  right,  and  a 
machine  gun  hidden  somewhere  near  the  trench 
swept  that  road  all  night.  The  gun  was  quiet 
all  day  long;  no  one  ventured  along  there  before 
idusk.  A  driver  sat  in  front  of  the  wagon,  lean- 
ing back  a  little,  a  whip  in  his  hand.  Beside  him 
sat  another  soldier.  .  .  .  Both  were  going  to 
their  death,  the  road  at  a  little  distance  ahead 
crossed  the  enemy's  trench. 

"They  have  come  the  wrong  way,"   I  said. 
"They  were  going  to  Loos,  I  suppose,  and  took 
the  wrong  turning  at  the  Valle  Crossroads.  Poor , 
devils !" 

A  machine  gun  barked  from  the  rise;  we  saw.  1 
the  driver  of  the  wagon  straighten  himself  and 
(look  round.    His  companion  pointed  a  finger  at 
the  enemy's  trench.  ... 

"For  Christ's  sake  get  off!"  Bill  shouted  at 
them ;  but  they  couldn't  hear  him,  the  wagon  was 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away  from  our 
trench. 

"Damn  it!"  exclaimed  Bill;  "they'll  both  be 
killed.    There!" 


2o6  The  Great  PusK 

The  vehicle  Halted ;  the  near-side  wheeler  sliooK 
its  head,  then  dropped  sideways  on  the  road,  and 
kicked  out  with  its  hind  legs,  the  other  animal 
[fell  on  top  of  it.  The  driver's  whip  went  flying 
ffrom  his  hands,  and  the  man  lurched  forward 
land  fell  on  top  of  the  mules.  For  a  moment 
he  lay  there,  then  with  a  hurried  movement  he 
slipped  across  to  the  other  side  of  the  far  animal 
and  disappeared.  Our  eyes  sought  the  other  sol- 
dier, but  he  was  gone  from  sight,  probably  he  had 
been  shot  off  his  seat. 

"The  damned  fools!"  I  muttered.  "What 
brought  them  up  that  way?" 

"Wot's  that?"  Bill  suddenly  exclaimed.  "See, 
;Comin'  across  the  fields  behind  the  road!  A 
man,  a  hofficer.  .  .  .  Another  damned  fool,  'im ; 
Vll  get  a  bullet  in  'im." 

Bill  pointed  with  his  finger,  and  we  looked. 
Across  the  fields  behind  that  stretched  from  the, 
road  to  the  ruined  village  of  Maroc  we  saw  for 
the  moment  a  man  running  towards  the  wagon. 
We  only  had  a  momentary  glimpse  then.  The 
runner  suddenly  fell  flat  into  a  shell-hole  and 
'^disappeared  from  view. 


The  Cfiaplairi  207 

"He's  hit,"  said  Pryor.     "There,  the  beastly 
machine  gun  is  going  again.    Who  is  he  ?" 

We  stared  tensely  at  the  shell-hole.  No  sign 
of  movement.   .    .    . 

"  'E's  done  in,"  said  Bill. 
Even  as  he  spoke  the  man  who  had  fallen  rose 
and  raced  forward  for  a  distance  of  fifty  yards 
and  flung  himself  flat  again.    The  machine  gun 
barked  viciously.  .  .  . 

Then  followed  a  tense  moment,  and  again  the 
officer  (we  now  saw  that  he  was  an  officer) 
rushed  forward  for  several  yards  and  precipi- 
tated himself  into  a  shell-crater.  He  was  draw- 
ing nearer  the  disabled  wagon  at  every  rush. 
The  machine  gun  did  not  remain  silent  for  a 
moment  now ;  it  spat  incessantly  at  the  fields. 

"He's  trying  to  reach  the  wagon,"  I  said.    "I 
don't  envy  him  his  job,  but,  my  God,  what  pluck !" 
"  'Oo  is  'e  ?"  asked  Bill.    "  'E's  not  arf  a  brick, 
boever  'e  is!" 

"I  think  I  know  who  it  is,"  said  Pryor.  "It's 
the  Roman  Catholic  chaplain,  Father  Lane-Fox. 
He's  a  splendid  man.  He  came  over  with  us  in 
the  charge,  and  he  helped  to  carry  out  the 
wounded  till  every  man  was  in.    Last  night  when 


208  The  Great  Push 

we  went  for  our  rations  he  was  helping  the  sani- 
tary squad  to  bury  the  dead ;  and  the  enemy  were 
shelling  all  the  time.  He  is  the  pluckiest  man  in 
Loos." 

"He  wanted  to  come  across  in  the  charge,"  I 
said,  "but  the  Brigadier  would  not  allow  him. 
An  hour  after  we  crossed  the  top  I  saw  him  in 
the  second  German  trench.  .  .  .  There  he  is,  up 
again!" 

The  chaplain  covered  a  hundred  yards  in  the 
next  spurt;  then  he  flung  himself  to  earth  about 
fifty  yards  from  the  wagon.  The  next  lap  was 
the  last;  he  reached  the  wagon  and  disappeared. 
We  saw  nothing  more  of  him  that  day.  At  night 
when  I  went  down  to  the  dressing-station  at 
Maroc  I  was  told  how  the  chaplain  had  brought 
a  wounded  transport  driver  down  to  the  dress- 
ing-station after  dusk.  The  driver  had  got  three 
bullets  through  his  arm,  one  in  nis  shoulder,  one 
in  his  foot,  and  two  in  the  calf  of  his  leg.  The 
driver's  mate  had  been  killed;  a  bullet  pierced 
his  brain. 

The  London  Irish  love  Father  Lane-Fox;  he 
visited  the  men  in  the  trenches  daily,  and  all 
felt  the  better  for  his  coming. 


The  Chaplain  209 

Often  at  night  the  sentry  on  watch  can  see  a 
dark  form  between  the  lines  working  with  a 
shovel  and  spade  burying-  the  dead.  The  bullets 
whistle  by,  hissing  of  death  and  terror;  now  and 
then  a  bomb  whirls  in  air  and  bursts  loudly;  a 
shell  screeches  like  a  bird  of  prey;  the  hounds  of 
war  rend  the  earth  with  frenzied  fangs;  but  in- 
different to  all  the  clamour  and  tumult  the  soli- 
tary digger  bends  over  his  work  burying  the 
dead. 

"It's  old  Father  £ane-Fox,"  the  sentry  will 
mutter.    "He'll  be  killed  one  of  these  fine  days." 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  LOVER  AT  LOOS 

The  turrets  twain  that  stood  in  air 
Sheltered  a  foeman  sniper  there; 
They  found  who  fell  to  the  sniper's  aim, 
A  held  of  death  on  the  field  of  fame — 
And  stiff  in  khaki  the  boys  were  laid, 
To  the  rifle's  toll  at  the  barricade; 
But  the  quick  went  clattering  through  the  town, 
Shot  at  the  sniper  and  brought  him  down, 
In  the  town  of  Loos  in  the  morning. 

^"~|  "^HE  night  was  wet,  the  rain  dripped  from 
the  sandbags  and  lay  in  little  pools  on 
the  floor  of  the  trench.  Snug  in  the 
shelter  of  its  keep  a  machine  gun  lurked  privily, 
waiting  for  blood.  The  weapon  had  an  abso- 
lutely impersonal  air;  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
war  and  the  maiming  of  men.  Two  men  were 
asleep  in  the  bay,  sitting  on  the  fire-step  and 
snoring  loudly.  A  third  man  leant  over  the  para- 
pet, his  eyes  (if  they  were  open)  fixed  on  the 
enemy's  trench  in  front.  Probably  he  was  asleep; 
he  stood  fixed  to  his  post  motionless  as  a  statue. 
I  wrapped  my  overcoat  tightly  round  my  body 

210 


A  Lover  at  Loos  211 

and  lay  down  in  the  slush  by  a  dug-out  door. 
The  dug-out,  a  German  construction  that  bur- 
rowed deep  in  the  chalky  clay  of  Loos,  was 
crowded  with  queer,  distorted  figures.  It  looked 
as  if  the  dead  on  the  field  had  been  collected  and 
shovelled  into  the  place  pell-mell.  Bill  Teake 
lay  with  his  feet  inside  the  shelter,  his  head  and 
shoulders  out  in  the  rain.  "I  couldn't  get  in  no- 
how," he  grumbled  as  I  lay  down;  "so  I  arst  them 
inside  to  throw  me  a  'andful  of  fleas  an'  I'd  kip 
on  the  doorstep.  Blimey!  'tain't  arf  a  barney; 
mud  feathers,  and  no  blurry  blanket.  There's 
one  thing  certain,  anyhow,  that  is,  in  the  Army 
you're  certain  to  receive  what  you  get." 

I  was  asleep  immediately,  my  head  on  Bill's 
breast,  my  body  in  the  mud,  my  clothes  sodden 
with  rain.  In  the  nights  that  followed  Loos  we 
slept  anywhere  and  anyhow.  Men  lay  in  the 
mud  in  the  trenches,  in  the  fields,  by  the  road- 
side, on  sentry,  and  out  on  listening  patrols  be- 
tween the  lines.  I  was  asleep  for  about  five  min- 
utes when  someone  woke  me  up.  I  got  to  my 
feet,  shivering  with  cold. 

"What's  up?"  I  asked  the  soldier  who  had 
shaken  me  from  my  slumber.    He  was  standing 


212  The  Great  Push 

opposite,  leaning  against  the  parados  and  yawn- 


ing. 


"There's  a  bloke  in  the  next  dug-out  as  'as  got 
wounded,"  said  the  man.  "  'E  needs  someone 
to  dress  'is  wound  an'  take  'im  to  the  dressin'- 
station.    'E  'as  just  crawled  in  from  the  fields." 

"All  right,"  I  replied.  "I'll  go  along  and  see 
him." 

A  stairway  led  down  to  the  dug-out ;  an  officer 
lay  asleep  at  the  entrance,  and  a  lone  cat  lay 
curled  up  on  the  second  step.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  stair  was  a  bundle  of  khaki,  moaning  feebly. 

"Much  hurt?"  I  asked. 

"Feelin'  a  bit  rotten,"  replied  a  smothered 
voice. 

"Where's  your  wound?" 

"On  my  left  arm." 

"What  is  your  regiment?"  I  asked,  fumbling 
at  the  man's  sleeve. 

"The  East  Yorks,"  was  the  reply  to  my  ques- 
tion. "I  was  comin'  up  the  trench  that's  piled 
with  dead  Germans.  I  couldn't  crawl  over  them 
all  .the  way,  they  smelt  so  bad.  I  got  up  and 
tried  to  walk;  then  a  sniper  got  me." 

"Where's  your  regiment?"  I  asked. 


A  Lover  at  Loos  213 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer.  "I  got  lost 
and  I  went  lookin'  for  my  mates.  I  came  into 
a  trench  that  was  crowded  with  Germans." 

"There's  where  you  got  hit,"  I  said. 

"No;  they  were  Germans  that  wasn't  dead," 
came  the  surprising  reply.  "They  were  cooking 
food." 

"When  was  this?"  I  asked. 

"Yesterday,  just  as  it  was  growin'  dusk,"  said 
the  wounded  man  in  a  weary  voice.  "Then  the 
Germans  saw  me  and  they  began  to  shout  and 
they  caught  hold  of  their  rifles.  I  jumped  over 
the  trench  and  made  off  with  bullets  whizzin' 
all  round  me.  I  tripped  and  fell  into  a  shell-hole 
and  I  lay  there  until  it  was  very  dark.  Then  I 
got  into  the  English  trenches.  I  'ad  a  sleep  till 
mornin',  then  I  set  off  to  look  for  my  regiment." 

While  he  was  speaking  I  had  lit  the  candle 
which  I  always  carried  in  my  pocket  and  placed 
it  on  the  floor  of  the  dug-out.  I  examined  his 
wound.  A  bullet  had  gone  through  the  left  fore- 
arm, cutting  the  artery  and  fracturing  the  bone ; 
the  blood  was  running  down  to  his  finger  tips  in 
little  rivulets.  I  looked  at  the  face  of  the  patient. 
He  was  a  mere  boy,  with  thoughtful  dark  eyes, 


214  The  Great  Push 

a  snub  nose,  high  cheekbones;  a  line  of  down 
showed  on  a  long  upper  lip,  and  a  fringe  of  inno- 
cent curling  hairs  straggled  down  his  cheeks  and 
curved  round  his  chin.  He  had  never  used  a 
razor. 

I  bound  up  the  wound,  found  a  piece  of  bread 
in  my  pocket  and  gave  it  to  him.  He  ate  raven- 
ously. 

"Hungry?"  I  said. 

"  'As  a  'awk,"  he  answered.  "I  didn't  'ave 
nothin'  to-day  and  not  much  yesterday." 

"How  long  have  you  been  out  here?"  I  asked. 

"Only    a    week,"    he    said.      "The    regiment 

marched  from  to  here.     'Twasn't  'arf  a 

bloomin'  sweat.  We  came  up  and  got  into  action 
at  once." 

"You'll  be  going  home  with  this  wound,"  I 
said. 

"Will  I  ?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Yes,"  I  replied.  "A  fracture  of  the  forearm. 
It  will  keep  you  in  England  for  six  months.  How 
do  you  like  that?" 

"I'll  be  pleased,"  he  said. 

"Have  you  a  mother?"  I  asked. 

"No,  but  I've  a  girl. 


>> 


A  Lover  at  Loos  215 

"Oh !" 

"Not  'arf  I  'aven't,"  said  the  youth.  "I've 
only  one,  too.  I  don't  'old  with  foolin'  about 
with  women.  One's  enough  to  be  gone  on,  and 
often  one  is  one  too  many." 

"Very  sound  reasoning,"  I  remarked  sleepily. 
I  had  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  was  dozing  off. 

The  officer  at  the  top  of  the  stair  stirred,  shook 
himself  and  glanced  down. 

"Put  out  that  light,"  he  growled.  "It's  show- 
ing out  of  the  door.  The  Germans  will  see  it 
and  send  a  shell  across." 

I  put  the  candle  out  and  stuck  it  in  my  pocket. 

"Are  you  in  pain  now  ?"  I  asked  the  wounded 

boy. 

"There's  no  pain  now,"  was  the  answer.  "It 
went  away  when  you  put  the  dressing  on." 

"Then  we'll  get  along  to  the  dressing-station," 
I  said,  and  we  clambered  up  the  stairs  into  the 
open  trench. 

The  sky,  which  was  covered  with  dark  grey 
clouds  when  I  came  in,  had  cleared  in  parts,  and 
from  time  to  time  the  moon  appeared  like  a  soft 
beautiful  eye.  The  breezes  held  converse  on  the 
sandbags.     I  could  hear  the  subdued  whisper- 


2i6  .The  Great  Pusri 

ing  of  their  prolonged  consultation.  We  walked 
along  the  peopled  alley  of  war,  where  the  quick 
stood  on  the  banquettes,  their  bayonets  reflect- 
ing the  brilliance  of  the  moon.  When  we  should 
get  as  far  as  the  trench  where  the  dead  Ger- 
mans were  lying  we  would  venture  into  the  open 
and  take  the  high  road  to  Maroc. 

"So  you've  got  a  girl,"  I  said  to  my  com- 
panion. 

"I  have,"  he  answered.     "And  she's  not  'arf 
a  one  either.     She's  a  servant  in  a  gentleman's 

'ouse  at  Y .    I  was  workin'  for  a  baker  and 

I  used  to  drive  the  van.     What  d'ye  work  at?" 
"I'm  a  navvy,"  I  said.    "I  dig  drains  and  things 
like  that." 

"Not  much  class  that  sort  of  work,"  said  the 

baker's  boy.     "If  you  come  to  Y after  the 

war  I'll  try  and  get  yer  a  job  at  the  baker's.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  saw  this  'ere  girl  at  the  big  'ouse  and  I 
took  a  fancy  to  'er.  Are  yer  much  gone  on  girls  ?, 
No,  neither  am  I  gone  on  any,  only  this  one* 
She's  a  sweet  thing.  I'd  read  you  the  last  let- 
ter she  sent  me  only  it's  too  dark.  Maybe  I 
could  read  it  if  the  moon  comes  out.  Can  you 
read  a  letter  by  the  light  of  the  moon?     No. 


A  Lover  at  Loos  217 

.  .  .  Well,  I  took  a  fancy  to  the  girl  and  she  fell 
in  love  with  me.  'Er  name  was  Polly  Pundy. 
What's  your  name?" 

"Socrates,"  I  said. 

"My  name  is  plain  Brown,"  the  boy  said. 
"Jimmy  Brown.  My  mates  used  to  call  me 
Tubby  because  I  was  stout.  Have  you  got  a 
nickname?  No.  ...  I  don't  like  a  nickname. 
Neither  does  Polly." 

"How  does  your  love  affair  progress?"  I 
asked. 

"It's  not  all  'oney,"  said  the  youth,  trying  to 
evade  a  projecting  sandbag  that  wanted  to  nudge 
his  wounded  arm.  "It  makes  one  think.  Some- 
how, I  like  that  'ere  girl  too  well  to  be  'appy  with 
'er.  She's  too  good  for  me,  she  is.  I  used  to 
be  jealous  sometimes;  I  would  strike  a  man  as 
would  look  at  'er  as  quick  as  I'd  think  of  it. 
Sometimes  when  a  young  feller  passed  by  and 
didn't  look  at  my  Polly  I'd  be  angry  too.  'Wasn't 
she  good  enough  for  'im?'  I'd  say  to  mvself ;  usin* 
'is  eyes  to  look  at  somethin'  else  when  Polly  is 
about " 

"We'll  get  over  the  top  now,"  I  said,  inter- 
rupting Brown.    We  had  come  to  the  trench  of 


218  The  Great  Push 

the  dead  Germans.  In  front  of  us  lay  a  dark 
lump  coiled  up  in  the  trench;  a  hand  stretched 
out  towards  us,  a  wan  face  looked  up  at  the  grey 
sky.  .  .  .  "We'll  speak  of  Polly  Pundy  out  in 
the  open." 

We  crossed  the  sandbagged  parados.  The 
level  lay  in  front — grey,  solitary,  formless.  It 
was  very  quiet,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  fields 
where  the  whirlwind  of  war  had  spent  its  fury 
a  few  days  ago  there  was  a  sense  of  eternal  lone- 
liness and  sadness.  The  grey  calm  night  toned 
the  moods  of  my  soul  into  one  of  voiceless  sor- 
row, containing  no  element  of  unrest.  My  mood 
was  well  in  keeping  with  my  surroundings.  In 
the  distance  I  could  see  the  broken  chimney  of 
Maroc  coal-mine  standing  forlorn  in  the  air. 
Behind,  the  Twin  Towers  of  Loos  quivered, 
grimly  spectral. 

"We'll  walk  slowly,  Brown,"  I  said  to  the 
wounded  boy.  "We'll  fall  over  the  dead  if  we're 
not  careful.  ...  Is  Polly  Pundy  still  in  the  gen- 
tleman's house?"  I  asked. 

"She's  still  there,"  said  the  boy.  "When  we 
get  married  we're  goin'  to  open  a  little  shop." 

"A  baker's  shop?"  I  asked. 


A  Lover  at  Loos  219 

"I  s'pose  so.  It's  what  I  know  more  about 
than  anythink  else.  D'you  know  anything  about 
baking.  .  .  .  Nothing?  It's  not  a  bad  thing  to 
turn  your  'and  to,  take  my  tip  for  it.  .  .  .  Ugh! 
I  almost  fell  over  a  dead  bloke  that  time.  .  .  . 
I'm  sleepy,  aren't  you?" 

"By  God !  I  am  sleepy,  Jimmy  Brown,"  I  mut- 
tered. "I'll  try  and  find  a  cellar  in  Maroc  when 
I  get  there  and  have  a  good  sleep." 

The  dressing-station  in  the  ruined  village  was 
warm  and  comfortable.  An  R.A.M.C.  orderly 
was  busily  engaged  in  making  tea  for  the  wound- 
ed who  lay  crowded  in  the  cellar  waiting  until 
the  motor  ambulances  came  up.  Some  had  waited 
for  twenty-four  hours.  Two  doctors  were  busy 
with  the  wounded,  a  German  officer  with  an  arm 
gone  lay  on  a  stretcher  on  the  floor;  a  cat  was 
asleep  near  the  stove,  I  could  hear  it  purring. 

Mick  Garney,  one  of  our  boys,  was  lying  on 
the  stretcher  near  the  stove.  He  was  wounded 
in  the  upper  part  of  the  thigh,  and  was  recount- 
ing his  adventures  in  the  charge.  He  had  a  queer 
puckered  little  face,  high  cheekbones,  and  a  lit- 
tle black  clay  pipe,  which  he  always  carried  in- 
side his  cap  on  parade  and  in  his  haversack  on 


220  The  Great  Push 

the  march,  that  was  of  course  when  he  was  not 
carrying  it  between  his  teeth  with  its  bowl  turned 
down.  Going  across  in  the  charge,  Micky  ob- 
served some  half  a  dozen  Germans  rushing  out 
from  a  spinney  near  Hill  70,  and  placing  a  ma- 
chine gun  on  the  Vermelles-Hulluch  road  along 
which  several  kilted  Highlanders  were  coming 
at  the  double.  Garney  took  his  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth  and  looked  on.  They  were  daring  fel- 
lows, those  Germans,  coming  out  into  the  open 
in  the  face  of  a  charge  and  placing  their  gun  in 
position.     "I  must  stop  their  game,"  said  Mick. 

He  lit  his  pipe,  turned  the  bowl  down,  then 
lay  on  the  damp  earth  and,  using  a  dead  German 
'for  a  rifle-rest,  he  took  careful  aim.  At  the  pull 
of  the  trigger,  one  of  the  Germans  fell  headlong, 
a  second  dropped  and  a  third.  The  three  who 
remained  lugged  the  gun  back  into  Loos  church- 
yard and  placed  it  behind  a  tombstone  on  which 
was  the  figure  of  two  angels  kneeling  in  front  of 
"The  Sacred  Heart."  Accompanied  by  two 
bombers,  Mick  Garney  found  the  Germans  there. 

"God  forgive  me!"  said  Mick,  recounting  the 
incident  to  the  M.O.,  "I  threw  a  bomb  that  blew 
the  two  angels  clean  off  the  tombstone." 


A  Lover  at  Eoos  221 

"And  the  Germans  ?"  asked  the  M.O. 

"Begorra!  they  went  with  the  angels." 

...  A  doctor,  a  pot-bellied  man  with  a  kindly 
face  and  an  innocent  moustache,  took  off  Brown's 
bandage  and  looked  at  me. 

"How   are   things   going  on   up   there?"   he 

asked. 

"As  well  as  might  be  expected,"  I  replied. 

"You  look  worn  out,"  said  the  doctor. 

"I  feel  worn  out,"  I  answered. 

"Is  it  a  fact  that  the  German  Crown  Prince 
has  been  captured?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"Who?" 

"The  German  Crown  Prince,"  said  the  man.. 
"A  soldier  who  has  just  gone  away  from  here 
vows  that  he  saw  Little  Willie  under  escort  in 

Loos." 

"Oh,  it's  all  bunkum,"  I  replied.  "I  suppose 
the  man  has  had  too  much  rum." 

The  doctor  laughed. 

"Well,  sit  down  and  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  you 
a  cup  of  tea,"  he  said  in  a  kindly  voice,  and  at 
his  word  I  sat  down  on  the  floor.  I  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  further  until  the  following 
noon.    I  awoke  to  find  myself  in  a  cellar,  wrapped 


222  The  Great  Push 

in  blankets  and  lying  on  a  stretcher.  I  went 
upstairs  and  out  into  the  street  and  found  that 
I  had  been  sleeping  in  the  cellar  of  the  house  ad- 
joining the  dressing-station. 

I  called  to  mind  Jimmy  Brown,  his  story  of 
Polly  Pundy;  his  tale  of  passion  told  on  the  field 
of  death,  his  wound  and  his  luck.  A  week  in 
France  only,  and  now  going  back  again  to  Eng- 
land, to  Polly  Pundy,  servant  in  a  gentleman's 
house.  He  was  on  his  way  home  now  probably, 
a  wound  in  his  arm  and  dreams  of  love  in  his 
head.  You  lucky  devil,  Jimmy  Brown!  .  .  . 
Anyhow,  good  fortune  to  you.  .  .  .  But  mean- 
while it  was  raining  and  I  had  to  get  back  to 
the  trenches. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   RATION    PARTY 

"In  the  Army  you  are  certain  to  receive  what  you  get."— 
Trench  Proverb. 

A  RIFLEMAN  lay  snoring  in  the  soft  slush 
on  the  floor  of  the  trench,  his  arms 
doubled  under  him,  his  legs  curved  up 
so  that  the  knees  reached  the  man's  jaw.  As 
I  touched  him  he  shuffled  a  little,  turned  on  his 
side,  seeking  a  more  comfortable  position  in  the 
mud,  and  fell  asleep  again.  A  light  glowed  in 
the  dug-out  and  someone  in  there  was  singing  in 
a  low  voice  a  melancholy  ragtime  song.  No  doubt 
a  fire  was  now  lit  in  the  corner  near  the  wall, 
my  sleeping  place,  and  Bill  Teake  was  there  pre- 
paring a  mess-tin  of  tea. 

The  hour  was  twilight,  the  hour  of  early  stars 
and  early  star-shells,  of  dreams  and  fancies  and 
longings  for  home.  It  is  then  that  all  objects 
take    on    strange    shapes,    when    every    jutting 

traverse  becomes  alive  with  queer  forms,  the  stiff 

223 


224  The  Great  Push 

sandbag  becomes  a  gnome,  the  old  dug-out,  lean- 
ing wearily  on  its  props,  an  ancient  crone,  spirits 
lurk  in  every  nook  and  corner  of  shadows;  the 
sleep-heavy  eyes  of  weary  men  see  strange  visions 
in  the  dark  alleys  of  war.  I  entered  the  dug- 
out. A  little  candle  in  a  winding  sheet  flared 
dimly  in  a  niche  which  I  had  cut  in  the  wall  a 
few  days  previous.  Pryor  was  sitting  on  the 
floor,  his  hands  clasped  round  his  knees,  and  he 
was  looking  into  infinite  distances.  Bill  Teake 
was  there,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  humming  his 
ragtime  tune.  Two  other  soldiers  were  there, 
lying  on  the  floor  and  probably  asleep.  One  was 
covered  with  a  blanket,  but  his  face  was  bare, 
a  sallow  face  with  a  blue,  pinched  nose,  a  weak, 
hairy  jaw,  and  an  open  mouth  that  gaped  at 
the  rafters.  The  other  man  lay  at  his  feet, 
breathing  heavily.    No  fire  was  lit  as  yet. 

"No  rations  have  arrived?"  I  asked. 

"No  blurry  rations,"  said  Bill.  "Never  no 
rations  now,  nothink  now  at  all.  I  'ad  a  loaf 
yesterday  and  I  left  it  in  my  pack  in  the  trench, 
and  when  I  come  to  look  for't,  it  was  gone." 

"Who  took  it?"  I  asked. 

"Ask  me  another!"  said  Bill  with  crushing 


[The  Ration  Party  225 

irony.  "  'Oo  ate  the  first  bloater  ?  Wot  was  the 
size  of  my  great  grandmuvver's  boots  when  she 
was  twenty-one?  But  '00  pinched  my  loaf?  and 
men  in  this  crush  that  would  pinch  a  dead  mouse 
'from  a  blind  kitten !  Yer  do  ask  some  questions, 
Pat !" 

"Bill  and  I  were  having  a  discussion  a  mo- 
ment ago,"  said  Pryor,  interrupting.  "Bill  main- 
tains that  the  Army  is  not  an  honourable  insti- 
tution, and  that  no  man  should  join  it.  If  he 
knew  as  much  as  he  knows  now  he  would  neve/1 
have  come  into  it.     I  was  saying  that — — " 

"Oh,  you  were  talkin'  through  yer  ^at,  that's 
wot  you  were,"  said  Bill.  "The  harmy  a  place 
of  honour  indeed!  'Oo  wants  to  join  it  now? 
Nobody  as  far  as  I  can  see.  The  married  men 
'say  to  the  single  men,  'You  go  and  fight,  you 
slackers!  We'll  stay  at  'ome;  we  'ave  our  old 
women  to  keep!'  Sayin'  that,  the  swine!"  said 
Bill  angrily.  "Them  thinkin'  that  the  single  men 
'ave  nothin'  to  do  but  to  go  out  and  fight  for 
Other  men's  wives.  Blimey!  that  ain't  'arf 
cheek!" 

"That  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  our  cause  is 
just/'  said  Pryor.    "The  Lord  God  of  Hosts  is 


226  [The  Great  PusK 

with  us  yet,  and  the  Church  says  that  all  men 
should  fight — except  clergymen." 

-'And  why  shouldn't  them  parsons  fight?" 
asked  Bill.  "They  say,  'Go  and  God  bless  you' 
Ito  us,  and  then  they  won't  fight  themselves.  It's 
against  the  laws  of  God,  they  say.  If  we  'ad 
all  the  clergymen,  all  the  M.P.'s,  the  Kaiser  and 
Crown  Prince,  Krupp  and  von  Kluck,  and  all 
these  'ere  blokes  wot  tell  us  to  fight,  in  these  'ere 
trenches  for  a  week,  the  war  would  come  to  an 
end  very  sudden." 

Pryor  rose  and  tried  to  light  a  fire.  Wood 
was  very  scarce,  the  paper  was  wet  and  refused 
to  burn. 

"No  fire  to-night,"  said  Bill  in  a  despondent 
voice.  "Two  pieces  of  wood  on  a  brazier  is  no 
go;  they  look  like  two  crossbones  on  a  'earse." 

"Are  rations  coming  up  to-night?"  I  asked. 
The  ration  wagons  had  been  blown  to  pieces  on 
the  road  the  night  before  and  we  were  very  hun- 
gry now. 

"I  suppose  our  grub  will  get  lost  this  night 
again,"  said  Bill.  "It's  always  the  way.  I  wish 
I  was  shot  like  that  bloke  there." 

"Where?"  I  asked. 


The  Ration  Party  227 

"There,"  answered  Bill,  pointing  at  the  man 
with  the  blue  and  pinched  face  who  lay  in  the 
corner.    "  'E's  gone  West." 

-"No,"  I  said.    "He's  asleep!" 

"  'E'll  not  get  up  at  revelly,  'im,"  said  Bill. 
"  'E's  out  of  the  doin's  for  good.  'E  got  wounded 
at  the  door  and  we  took  'im  in.    'E  died."  .  .  . 

I  approached  the  prostrate  figure,  examined 
him,  and  found  that  Bill  spoke  the  truth. 

"A  party  has  gone  down  to  Maroc  for  ra- 
tions," said  Pryor,  lighting  a  cigarette  and  puf- 
fing the  smoke  up  towards  the  roof.  "They'll 
be  back  by  eleven,  I  hope.  That's  if  they're  not 
blown  to  pieces.  A  lot  of  men  got  hit  going 
down  last  night,  and  then  there  was  no  grub 
when  they  got  to  the  dumping  ground." 

"This  man,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  snoring 
figure  on  the  ground.    "He  is  all  right?" 

"Dead  beat  only,"  said  Pryor;  "but  otherwise 
safe.    I  am  going  to  have  a  kip  now  if  I  can." 

So  saying  he  bunched  up  against  the  wall,  leant 
his  elbow  on  the  brazier  that  refused  to  burn, 
and  in  a  few  seconds  he  was  fast  asleep.  Bill 
and  I  lay  down  together,  keeping  as  far  away 


228  [THe  Great  Push 

as  we  could  from  the  dead  man,  and  did  our  Best 
to  snatch  a  few  minutes'  repose. 

We  nestled  close  to  the  muddy  floor  across 
which  the  shadows  of  the  beams  and  sandbags 
crept  in  ghostly  play.  Now  the  shadows  bunched 
into  heaps,  again  they  broke  free,  lacing  and 
interlacing  as  the  lonely  candle  flared  from  its 
niche  in  the  wall. 

The  air  light  and  rustling  was  full  of  the  scent 
of  wood  smoke  from  a  fire  ablaze  round  the 
traverse,  of  the  smell  of  mice,  and  the  soft  sounds 
and  noises  of  little  creeping  things. 

Shells  travelling  high  in  air  passed  over  our 
dug-out;  the  Germans  were  shelling  the  Loos 
Road  and  the  wagons  that  were  coming  along 
there.  Probably  that  one  just  gone  over  had  hit 
the  ration  wagon.  The  light  of  the  candle  failed 
and  died:  the  night  full  of  depth  and  whisper- 
ing warmth  swept  into  the  dug-out,  cloaked  the 
sleeping  and  the  dead,  and  settled,  black  and 
ghostly,  in  the  corners.    I  fell  asleep. 

Bill  tugging  at  my  tunic  awoke  me  from  a 
horrible  nightmare.  In  my  sleep  I  had  gone  with 
the  dead  man  from  the  hut  out  into  the  open. 
He  walked  with  me,  the  dead  man,  who  knew 


(The  Ration  Party  229 

yiat  he  was  dead.  I  tried  to  prove  to  him  that 
it  was  not  quite  the  right  and  proper  thing  to 
do,  to  walk  when  life  had  left  the  body.  But 
he  paid  not  a  sign  of  heed  to  my  declamation. 
In  the  open  space  between  our  line  and  that  of 
the  Germans  the  dead  man  halted  and  told  me 
to  dig  a  grave  for  him  there.  A  shovel  came 
into  my  hand  by  some  strange  means  and  I  set 
to  work  with  haste;  if  the  Germans  saw  me  there 
they  would  start  to  shell  me.  The  sooner  I  got 
the  job  done  the  better. 

"Deep?"  I  asked  the  man  when  I  had  laboured 
'for  a  space.  There  was  no  answer.  I  looked  up 
at  the  place  where  he  stood  to  find  the  man  gone. 
On  the  ground  was  a  short  white  stump  of  bone. 
This  I  was  burying  when  Bill  shook  me. 

'Rations  'ave  come,  Pat,"  he  said. 

'What's  the  time  now?"  I  asked,  getting  to 
my  feet  and  looking  round.  A  fresh  candle  had 
been  lit;  the  dead  man  still  lay  in  the  corner, 
but  Pryor  was  asleep  in  the  blanket. 

"About  midnight,"  said  my  mate,  "or  maybe  a 
bit  past.    Yer  didn't  'arf  'ave  a  kip." 

"I  was  dreaming,"  I  said.  "Thought  I  was 
burying  a  man  between  the  German  lines." 


"] 


230  ^The  Great  Push! 

"You'll  soon  be  burying  a  man  or  two,"  said 
Bill. 

"Who  are  to  be  buried?"  J  asked. 

"The  ration  party." 

"What!" 

"The  men  copped  it  comin'  up  'ere,"  said  Bill. 
"Three  of  'em  were  wiped  out  complete.  The 
others  escaped.  I  went  out  with  Murney  and 
O'Meara  and  collared  the  grub.  I'm  just  goin' 
to  light  a  fire  now." 

"I'll  help  you,"  I  said,  and  began  to  cut  a 
fresh  supply  of  wood  which  had  come  from  no- 
where in  particular  with  my  clasp-knife. 

A  fire  was  soon  burning  merrily,  a  mess-tin 
of  water  was  singing,  and  Bill  had  a  few  slices 
of  bacon  on  the  mess-tin  lid  ready  to  go  on  the 
brazier  when  the  tea  came  off. 

"This  is  wot  I  call  comfy,"  he  said.     "Gawd, 
I'm  not  'arf  'ungry.    I  could  eat  an  'oss." 
•    I  took  off  the  tea,  Bill  put  the  lid  over  the 
flames  and  in  a  moment  the  bacon  was  sizzling. 

"Where's  the  bread,  Bill?"  I  asked. 

"In  that  there  sandbag,"  said  my  mate,  point- 
ing to  a  bag  beside  the  door. 

I  opened  the  bag  and  brought  out  the  loaf.    H 


The  Ration  Party  231 

felt  very  moist.  I  looked  at  it  and  saw  that  it 
was  coloured  dark  red. 

"What's  this?"  I  asked. 

"Wot?"  queried  Bill,  kicking  Pryor  to  waken 
him. 

"This  bread  has  a  queer  colour,"  I  said.  "See 
it,  Pryor." 

Pryor  gazed  at  it  with  sleep-heavy  eyes. 

"It's  red,"  he  muttered. 

"Its  colour  is  red,"  I  said. 

"Red,"  said  Bill.  "Well,  we're  damned  'ungry 
any'ow.  I'd  eat  it  if  it  was  covered  with  rat 
poison." 

"How  did  it  happen?"  I  asked. 

^Well,  it's  like  this,"  said  Bill.  "The  bloke 
as  was  carryin'  it  got  'it  in  the  chest.  The  ra- 
tions fell  all  round  'im  and  'e  fell  on  top  of  'em. 
That's  why  the  loaf  is  red." 

We  were  very  hungry,  and  hungry  men  are 
not  fastidious. 

We  made  a  good  meal. 

When  we  had  eaten  we  went  out  and  buried 
the  dead. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MICHAELMAS  EVE 

It's  "Carry  on !"  and  "Carry  on !"  and  "Carry  on !"  all  day, 

And  when  we  cannot  carry  on,  they'll  carry  us  away 

To  slumber  sound  beneath  the  ground,  pore  beggars  dead 

and  gone, 
Til  Gabriel    shouts  on  Judgment  Day,  "Get  out  and  carry 

on!" 

ON  Michaelmas  Eve  things  were  quiet ;  the 
big  guns  were  silent,  and  the  only  sign  of 
war  was  in  the  star-shells  playing  near 
Hill  70 ;  the  rifles  pinging  up  by  Bois  Hugo,  and 
occasional  clouds  of  shrapnel  incense  which  the 
guns  offered  to  the  god  they  could  not  break,  the 
Tower  Bridge  of  Loos.  We  had  not  been  re- 
lieved yet,  but  we  hoped  to  get  back  to  Les  Brebis 
for  a  rest  shortly.  The  hour  was  midnight,  and 
I  felt  very  sleepy.  The  wounded  in  our  sector 
had  been  taken  in,  the  peace  of  the  desert  was 
over  the  level  land  and  its  burden  of  unburied 
dead.  I  put  on  my  overcoat,  one  that  I  had 
just  found  in  a  pack  on  the  roadway,  and  went 

into  a  barn  which  stood  near  our  trench.    The 

232 


Michaelmas  Eve  233 

door  of  the  building-  hung  on  one  hinge.  I  pulled 
it  off,  placed  it  on  the  floor,  and  lay  on  it.  With 
due  caution  I  lit  a  cigarette,  and  the  smoke 
reeked  whitely  upwards  to  the  skeleton  roof 
which  the  shell  fire  had  stripped  of  nearly  all  its 
tiles. 

My  body  was  full  of  delightful  pains  of  weari- 
ness, my  mind  was  full  of  contentment.     The 
moon  struggled  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds  and 
a  shower  of  pale  light  streamed  through   the 
chequered  framework  overhead.    The  tiles  which 
had   weathered   a   leaden    storm   showed   dark 
against  the  sky,  queer  shadows  played  on  the 
floor,  and  in  the  subdued  moonlight,  strange,  un- 
expected contrasts  were  evoked.    In  the  corners, 
where  the  shadows  took  on  definite  forms,  there 
was  room  for  the  imagination  to  revel  in.     The 
night  of  ruination  with  its  soft  moonlight  and 
delicate  shading  had  a  wonderful  fascination  of 
its  own.    The  enemy  machine  gun,  fumbling  for 
an  opening,  chirruped  a  lullaby  as  its  bullets  pat- 
tered against  the  wall.    I  was  under  the  spell  of 
an  enchanting  poem.    ''How  good,  how  very  good 
it  is  to  be  alive,"  I  said. 

My  last  remembrance  before  dozing  off  was. 


234  The  Great  Push 

of  the  clatter  of  picks  and  shovels  on  the  road 
outside.  The  sanitary  squad  was  at  work  bury- 
ing the  dead.     I  fell  asleep. 

I  awoke  to  find  somebody  tugging  at  my  el- 
bow and  to  hear  a  voice  which  I  recognised  a& 
W.'s,  saying,  "It's  only  old  Pat." 

"What's  wrong?"  I  mumbled,  raising  myself 
on  my  elbow  and  looking  round.  The  sanitary 
diggers  were  looking  at  me,  behind  them  the 
Twin  Towers  stood  out  dark  against  the  moon- 
light. Girders,  ties  and  beams  seemed  to  have 
been  outlined  with  a  pen  dipped  in  molten  silver. 
I  was  out  in  the  open. 

"This  isn't  half  a  go,"  said  one  of  the  men,  a 
mate  of  mine,  who  belonged  to  the  sanitary 
squad.  "We  thought  you  were  a  dead  'un.  We 
dug  a  deep  grave,  put  two  in  and  there  was  room 
for  another.  Then  L.  said  that  there  was  a  bloke 
lying  on  a  door  inside  that  house,  and  in  we. 
goes  and  carries  you  out — door  and  all.    You're 


>> 


just  on  the  brink  of  your  grave  now. 

I  peeped  over  the  side  and  down  a  dark  hole 
with  a  bundle  of  khaki  and  a  white  face  at  the 
bottom. 


Michaelmas  Eve  235 

*'I  refuse  to  be  buried,"  I  muttered,  and  took 
up  my  bed  and  walked. 

As  I  lay  down  again  in  the  building  which  I 
had  left  to  be  buried,  I  could  hear  my  friends 
laughing.  It  was  a  delightful  joke.  In  a  moment 
I  was  sound  asleep. 

I  awoke  with  a  start  to  a  hell-riot  of  creaking 
timbers  and  tiles  falling  all  around  me.  I  got 
to  my  feet  and  crouched  against  the  wall  shud- 
dering, almost  paralyzed  with  fear.  A  tense  sec- 
ond dragged  by.  The  tiles  ceased  to  fall  and  I 
looked  up  at  the  place  where  the  roof  had  been. 
But  the  roof  was  gone;  a  shell  had  struck  the 
centre  beam,  raised  the  whole  construction  as  a 
lid  is  raised  from  a  teapot,  and  flung  it  over  into 
the  street.  ...  I  rushed  out  into  the  trench  in 
undignified  haste,  glad  of  my  miraculous  escape 
from  death,  and  stumbled  across  Bill  Teake  as 
I  fell  into  the  trench. 

"Wot's  wrong  with  yer,  mate?"  he  asked. 

I  drew  in  a  deep  breath  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment.     I  was  trying  to  regain  my  composure. 

"Bill,"  I  replied,  "this  is  the  feast  of  St.  Mi- 
chael and  All  Angels.  I've  led  such  an  exemplary 
life  that  St.  Michael  and  All  Angels  in  Para- 


236  The  Great  PusK 

dise  want  me  to  visit  them.  They  caused  the 
sanitary  squad  to  dig  my  grave  to-night,  and 
when  I  refused  to  be  buried  they  sent  a  shell 
along  to  strafe  me.  I  escaped.  I  refuse  to  be 
virtuous  from  now  until  the  end  of  my  days." 

"  'Ave  a  drop  of  rum,  Pat,"  said  Bill,  uncork- 
ing a  bottle. 

"Thank  you,  Bill,"  I  said,  and  drank.  I  wiped 
my  lips. 

"Are  we  going  to  be  relieved?"  I  asked. 

"In  no  time,"  said  Bill.  "The  22nd  London 
are  coming  along  the  trench  now.  We're  going 
back  to  Les  Brebis." 

"Good,"  I  said. 

"  'Ave  another  drop  of  rum,"  said  Bill. 

He  left  me  then  and  I  began  to  make  up  my 
pack.  It  was  useless  for  me  to  wait  any  longer. 
I  would  go  across  the  fields  to  Les  Brebis. 

The  night  grew  very  dark,  and  heavy  clouds 
gathered  overhead.  The  nocturnal  rustling  of 
the  field  surrounded  me,  the  dead  men  lay  every- 
where and  anyhow,  some  head-downwards  in 
shell-holes,  others  sitting  upright  as  they  were 
caught  by  a  fatal  bullet  when  dressing  their 
wounds.    Many  were  spread  out  at  full  length, 


Michaelmas  Eve  237 

their  legs  close  together,  their  arms  extended, 
crucifixes  fashioned  from  decaying  flesh  wrapped 
in  khaki.  Nature,  vast  and  terrible,  stretched 
out  on  all  sides;  a  red  star-shell  in  the  misty 
heavens  looked  like  a  lurid  wound  dripping  with 
blood. 

I  walked  slowly,  my  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  the 
field  ahead,  for  I  did  not  desire  to  trip  over  the 
dead,  who  lay  everywhere.  As  I  walked  a  shell 
whistled  over  my  head  and  burst  against  the 
Twin  Towers,  and  my  gaze  rested  on  the  explo- 
sion. At  that  moment  I  tripped  on  something 
soft  and  went  headlong  across  it.  A  dozen  rats 
slunk  away  into  the  darkness  as  I  fell.  I  got  to 
my  feet  again  and  looked  at  the  dead  man.  The 
corpse  was  a  mere  condensation  of  shadows  with 
a  blurred  though  definite  outline.  It  was  a  re- 
mainder and  a  reminder;  a  remnant  of  clashing 
steel,  of  rushing  figures,  of  loud-voiced  impreca- 
tions— of  war,  a  reminder  of  mad  passion,  of  or- 
ganised hatred,  of  victory  and  defeat. 

Engirt  with  the  solitude  and  loneliness  of  the 
night  it  wasted  away,  though  no  waste  could  al- 
ter it  now;  it  was  a  man  who  was  not;  hence- 
forth it  would  be  that  and  that  alone. 


238  The  Great  Push 

For  the  thing  there  was  not  the  quietude  of 
death  and  the  privacy  of  the  tomb,  it  was  out- 
cast from  its  kind.  Buffeted  by  the  breeze,  bat- 
tered by  the  rains  it  rotted  in  the  open.  Worms 
feasted  on  its  entrails,  slugs  trailed  silverly  over 
its  face,  and  lean  rats  gnawed  at  its  flesh.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  thing,  the  night  stank  with 
its  decay. 

Life  revolted  at  that  from  which  life  was  gone, 
the  quick  cast  it  away  for  it  was  not  of  them. 
The  corpse  was  one  with  the  mystery  of  the  m'ght, 
the  darkness  and  the  void. 

In  Loos  the  ruined  houses  looked  gloomy  by 
day,  by  night  they  were  ghastly.  A  house  is  a 
ruin  when  the  family  that  dwelt  within  its  walls 
is  gone;  but  by  midnight  in  the  waste,  how  hor- 
rible looks  the  house  of  flesh  from  which  the 
soul  is  gone.  We  are  vaguely  aware  of  what  has 
happened  when  we  look  upon  the  tenantless  home, 
but  man  is  stricken  dumb  when  he  sees  the  ten- 
antless body  of  one  of  his  kind.  I  could  only 
stare  at  the  corpse  until  I  felt  that  my  eyes  were 
as  glassy  as  those  on  which  I  gazed.  The  stiff- 
ness of  the  dead  was  communicated  to  my  being, 


Michaelmas  Eve  239 

the  silence  was  infectious;  I  hardly  dared  to 
breathe. 

"This  is  the  end  of  all  the  mad  scurry  and 
rush,"  I  said.  "What  purpose  does  it  serve? 
And  why  do  I  stand  here  looking  at  the  thing?" 
There  were  thousands  of  dead  around  Loos; 
fifty  thousand  perhaps,  scattered  over  a  few. 
square  miles  of  country,  unburied.  Some  men, 
even,  might  still  be  dying. 

A  black  speck  moved  along  the  earth  a  few 
yards  away  from  me,  slunk  up  to  the  corpse  and 
disappeared  into  it,  as  it  were.  Then  another 
speck  followed,  and  another.  The  rats  were  re- 
turning to  their  meal. 

The  bullets  whistled  past  my  ears.  The  Ger- 
mans had  a  machine  gun  and  several  fixed  rifles 
trained  on  the  Valle  cross-roads  outside  Loos, 
and  all  night  long  these  messengers  of  death 
sped  out  to  meet  the  soldiers  coming  up  the  road 
and  chase  the  soldiers  going  down. 

The  sight  of  the  dead  man  and  the  rats  had 
shaken  me ;  I  felt  nervous  and  could  not  restrain 
myself  from  looking  back  over  my  shoulder  at 
intervals.  I  had  a  feeling  that  something  was 
following  me,  a  Presence,  vague  and  terrible,  a 


240  The  Great  Push 

spectre  of  the  midnight  and  the  field  of  death. 

I  am  superstitious  after  a  fashion,  and  I  fear 
the  solitude  of  the  night  and  the  silent  obscurity 
of  the  darkness. 

Once,  at  Vermelles,  I  passed  through"  a  de- 
serted trench  in  the  dusk.  There  the  parapet  and 
parados  were  fringed  with  graves,  and  decrepit 
dug-outs  leant  wearily  on  their  props  like  hags 
on  crutches.  A  number  of  the  dug-outs  had 
fallen  in,  probably  on  top  of  the  sleeping  occu- 
pants, and  no  one  had  time  to  dig  the  victims 
out.  Such  things  often  happen  in  the  trenches, 
and  in  wet  weather  when  the  sodden  dug-outs 
cave  in,  many  men  are  buried  alive. 

The  trench  wound  wayward  as  a  river  through 
the  fields,  its  traverse  steeped  in  shadow,  its  bays 
full  of  mystery.  As  I  walked  through  the  maze 
my  mind  was  full  of  presentiments  of  evil.  I  was 
full  of  expectation,  everything  seemed  to  be  lead- 
ing up  to  happenings  weird  and  uncanny,  things 
which  would  not  be  of  this  world.  The  trench 
was  peopled  with  spectres ;  soldiers,  fully  armed, 
stood  on  the  fire-steps,  their  faces  towards  the 
enemy.  I  could  see  them  as  I  entered  a  bay, 
but  on  coming  closer  the  phantoms  died  away. 


Michaelmas  Eve  241 

The  boys  in  khaki  were  tilted  sandbags  heaped 
on  the  banquette,  the  bayonets  splinters  of  wood 
sharply  defined  against  the  sky.  As  if  to  heighten 
the  illusion,  torn  ground-sheets,  hanging  from  the 
parados,  made  sounds  like  travelling  shells,  as 
the  breezes  caught  them  and  brushed  them 
against  the  wall. 

I  went  into  a  bay  to  see  something  dark  grey 
and  shapeless  bulked  in  a  heap  on  the  fire-step. 
Another  heap  of  sandbags  I  thought.  But  no! 
In  the  darkness  of  the  weird  locality  realities 
were  exaggerated  and  the  heap  which  I  thought 
was  a  large  one  was  in  reality  very  small;  a 
mere  soldier,  dead  in  the  trench,  looked  enor- 
mous in  my  eyes.  The  man's  bayonet  was 
pressed  between  his  elbow  and  side,  his  head 
bending  forward  almost  touched  the  knees,  and 
both  the  man's  hands  were  clasped  across  it  as 
if  for  protection.  A  splinter  of  shell  which  he 
stooped  to  avoid  must  have  caught  him.  He  now 
was  the  sole  occupant  of  the  deserted  trench, 
this  poor,  frozen  effigy  of  fear.  The  trench  was 
a  grave  unfilled.  ...  I  scrambled  over  the  top 
and  took  my  way  across  the  open  towards  my 
company. 


242  The  Great  Push 

Once,  at  midnight,  I  came  through  the  deserted 
village  of  Bully-Grenay,  where  every  house  was 
built  exactly  like  its  neighbour.  War  has  played 
havoc  with  the  pattern,  however,  most  of  the 
houses  are  shell-stricken,  and  some  are  levelled 
to  the  ground.  The  church  stands  on  a  little 
knoll  near  the  coal-mine,  and  a  shell  has  dug  a 
big  hole  in  the  floor  of  the  aisle.  A  statue 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin  sticks  head  downwards  in 
the  hole;  how  it  got  into  this  ludicrous  position 
is  a  mystery. 

The  Germans  were  shelling  the  village  as  I 
came  through.  Shrapnel  swept  the  streets  and 
high  explosives  played  havoc  with  the  mine;  I 
had  no  love  for  a  place  in  such  a  plight.  In  front 
of  me  a  limber  was  smashed  to  pieces,  the  driver 
was  dead,  the  offside  wheeler  dead,  the  nearside 
wheeler  dying  and  kicking  its  mate  in  the  belly 
with  vicious  hooves.  On  either  side  of  me  were 
deserted  houses  with  the  doors  open  and  shadows 
brooding  in  the  interior.  The  cellars  would  af- 
ford secure  shelter  until  the  row  was  over,  but 
I  feared  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  more  than 
I  feared  the  shells  in  the  open  street.  When  the 
splinters  swept  perilously  near  to  my  head  I  made 


Michaelmas  Eve  243 

instinctively  for  an  open  door,  but  the  shadows 
seemed  to  thrust  me  back  with  a  powerful  hand. 
To  save  my  life  I  wrould  not  go  into  a  house  and 
seek  refuge  in  the  cellars. 

I  fear  the  solitude  of  the  night,  but  I  can  never 
ascertain  what  it  is  I  fear  in  it.  I  am  not  par- 
ticularly interested  in  the  supernatural,  and 
spiritualism  and  table-rapping  is  not  at  all  to  my 
taste.  In  a  crowded  room  a  spirit  in  my  way 
of  thinking  loses  its  dignity  and  power  to  im- 
press, and  at  times  I  am  compelled  to  laugh  at 
those  who  believe  in  manifestations  of  disem- 
bodied spirits. 

Once,  at  Givenchy,  a  soldier  in  all  seriousness 
spoke  of  a  strange  sight  which  he  had  seen. 
Givenchy  Church  has  only  one  wall  standing,  and 
a  large  black  crucifix  with  its  nailed  Christ  is 
fixed  to  this  wall.  From  the  trenches  on  a  moon- 
light night  it  is  possible  to  see  the  symbol  of  sor- 
row with  its  white  figure  which  seems  to  keep 
eternal  watch  over  the  line  of  battle.  The  sol- 
dier of  whom  I  speak  was  on  guard;  the  night 
was  very  clear,  and  the  enemy  were  shelling 
Givenchy  Church.  A  splinter  of  shell  knocked 
part  of  the  arm  of  the  cross  away.    The  soldier 


244  The  Great  Push 

on  watch  vowed  that  he  saw  a  luminous  halo 
settle  round  the  figure  on  the  Cross.  It  detached 
itself  from  its  nails,  came  down  to  the  ground, 
and  put  the  fallen  wood  back  to  its  place.  Then 
the  Crucified  resumed  His  exposed  position  again 
on  the  Cross.  It  was  natural  that  the  listeners 
should  say  that  the  sentry  was  drunk. 

It  is  strange  how  the  altar  of  Givenchy  Church 
and  its  symbol  of  Supreme  Agony  has  escaped 
destruction.  Many  crosses  in  wayside  shrines 
have  been  untouched  though  the  locality  in  which 
they  stand  is  swept  with  eternal  artillery  fire. 

But  many  have  fallen;  when  they  become  one 
with  the  rubble  of  a  roadway  their  loss  is  unno- 
ticed. It  is  when  they  escape  destruction  that: 
they  become  conspicuous.  They  are  like  the 
faithful  in  a  storm  at  sea  who  prayed  to  the 
Maria  del  Stella  and  weathered  the  gale.  Their, 
good  fortune  became  common  gossip.  But  gos- 
sip, historical  and  otherwise,  is  mute  upon  those 
who  perished. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

BACK   AT   LOOS 

The  dead  men  lay  on  the  shell-scarred  plain, 
Where  death  and  the  autumn  held  their  reign- 
Like  banded  ghosts  in  the  heavens  grey 
The  smoke  of  the  conflict  died  away. 
The  boys  whom  I  knew  and  loved  were  dead, 
Where  war's  grim  annals  were  writ  in  red, 
In  the  town  of  Loos  in  the  morning. 

THE  ruined  village  lay  wrapped  in  the 
silence  of  death.  It  was  a  corpse  over 
which  the  stars  came  out  like  funeral 
tapers.  The  star-shells  held  the  heaven  behind 
Loos,  forming  into  airy  constellations  which  van- 
ished at  a  breath.  The  road,  straight  as  an  ar- 
row, pitted  with  shell-holes  and  bearing  an  in- 
congruous burden  of  dead  mules,  dead  men, 
broken  limbers,  and  vehicles  of  war,  ran  in  front 
of  us  straight  up  to  and  across  the  firing  line 
into  the  France  that  was  not  France.  Out  there 
behind  the  German  lines  were  the  French  vil- 
lagers and  peasantry,   fearing  any  advance  on 

our  part,  much  more  even  than  the  Germans 

245 


246  The  Great  PusK 

feared  it,  even  as  much  as  the  French  behind 
our  lines  feared  a  German  advance. 

The  indefatigable  shrapnel  kills  impartially; 
how  many  civilians  in  Loos  and  Lens  have  fallen 
victims  to  the  furious  75's?  In  France  the  Al- 
lies fight  at  a  disadvantage;  a  few  days  previ- 
ously a  German  ammunition  depot  had  been 
blown  up  in  Lille,  and  upwards  of  a  hundred 
French  civilians  were  killed.  How  much  more 
effective  it  would  have  been  if  the  civilians  had 
been  Germans! 

Our  battalion  was  returning  to  the  trenches 

after  a  fortnight's  rest  in  H ,  a  village  in 

the  rear.  We  had  handed  over  the  trench  taken 
from  the  Germans  to  the  22nd  London  Regiment 

before  leaving  for  H .     In  H we  got  a 

new  equipment,  fresh  clothing,  good  boots  and 
'clean  shirts;  now  we  were  ready  for  further 
work  in  active  warfare. 

We  were  passing  through  Loos  on  the  way  to 
the  trenches.  What  a  change  since  we  had  been 
there  last!  The  adaptive  French  had  taken  the 
village  in  hand;  they  had  now  been  there  for 
three  days.  Three  days,  and  a  miracle  had  been 
accomplished.     Every  shell-crater  in  the  street 


Back  at  Loos  247 

was  filled  up  with  dead  horses,  biscuit  tins,  sand- 
bags and  bricks,  and  the  place  was  made  easy 
for  vehicle  traffic.  Barricades,  behind  which  ma- 
chine guns  lurked  privily,  were  built  at  the  main 
crossings.  An  old  bakery  was  patched  up  and 
there  bread  was  baked  for  the  soldiers.  In  a 
cellar  near  the  square  a  neat  wine-shop  displayed 
tempting  bottles  which  the  thirsty  might  pur- 
chase for  a  few  sous. 

The  ease  with  which  the  French  can  accom- 
modate themselves  to  any  change  has  been  a  con- 
stant source  of  wonder  to  me.  In  L,es  Brebis 
I  saw  roofs  blown  off  the  village  houses  at  dawn, 
at  noon  I  saw  the  natives  putting  them  on  again; 
at  Cuinchy  I  saw  an  ancient  woman  selling  cafe- 
au-lait  at  four  sous  a  cup  in  the  jumble  of  bricks 
which  was  once  her  home.  When  the  cow  which 
supplied  the  milk  was  shot  in  the  stomach  the 
woman  still  persisted  in  selling  coffee,  cafe  noir, 
at  three  sous  a  cup.  When  a  civilian  is  killed  at 
Mazingarbe  the  children  of  the  place  sell  the 
percussion  cap  of  the  death-dealing  shell  for  half 
a  franc.  Once  when  I  was  there  an  old  crone 
was  killed  when  washing  her  feet  at  a  street 
pump.     A  dozen  or  more  percussion  caps  were 


248  The  Great  Push 

sold  that  day ;  every  gargon  in  the  neighbourhood 
claimed  that  the  aluminium  nose-cap  in  his  pos-> 
session  was  the  one  that  did  the  foul  deed.  When 
I  was  new  to  France  I  bought  several  of  these 
ghastly  relics,  but  in  a  few  weeks  I  was  out  try- 
ing to  sell.  There  was  then,  however,  a  slump 
in  nose-caps,  and  I  lost  heavily. 

The  apt  process  of  accommodation  which  these 
few  incidents  may  help  to  illustrate  is  peculiar 
to  the  French;  they  know  how  to  make  the  best 
of  a  bad  job  and  a  ruined  village.  They  paved 
the  streets  with  dead  horses;  drew  bread  from 
the  bricks  and  stored  wine  in  the  litter  that  was 
Loos.  That  is  France,  the  Phoenix  that  rises  re- 
splendent from  her  ashes;  France  that  like  her 
Joan  of  Arc  will  live  for  ever  because  she  has 
suffered;  France,  a  star,  like  Rabelais,  which  can 
cast  aside  a  million  petty  vices  when  occasion  re- 
quires it  and  glow  with  eternal  splendour,  the 
wonder  of  the  world. 

The  Munster  Fusiliers  held  a  trench  on  the 
left  of  Loos  and  they  had  suffered  severely.  They 
had  been  in  there  for  eight  days,  and  the  big 
German  guns  were  active  all  the  time.  In  one 
place  the  trench  was  filled  in  for  a  distance  of 


Back  at  Loos  249 

three  hundred  yards.  Think  of  what  that  means. 
Two  hundred  men  manned  the  deep,  cold  alley 
dug  in  the  clay.  The  shells  fell  all  round  the 
spot,  the  parados  swooped  forward,  the  parapet 
dropped  back,  they  were  jaws  which  devoured 
men.  The  soldiers  went  in  there,  into  a  grave 
that  closed  like  a  trap.  None  could  escape. 
When  we  reopened  the  trench,  we  reopened  a 
grave  and  took  out  the  dead. 

The  night  we  came  to  relieve  those  who  re- 
mained alive  was  clear  and  the  stars  stood  out 
cold  and  brilliant  in  the  deep  overhead;  but  a 
grey  haze  enveloped  the  horizon,  and  probably 
we  would  have  rain  before  the  dawn.  The 
trenches  here  were  dug  recently,  make-shift  al- 
leys they  were,  insecure  and  muddy,  lacking  dug- 
outs, fire-places,  and  every  accommodation  that 
might  make  a  soldier's  life  bearable.  They  were 
"fringed  with  dead;  dead  soldiers  in  khaki  lay  on 
the  reverse  slope  of  the  parapet,  their  feet  in  the 
grass,  their  heads  on  the  sandbags ;  they  lay  be- 
hind the  parados,  on  the  levels,  in  the  woods, 
everywhere.  Upwards  of  eleven  thousand  Eng- 
lish dead  littered  the  streets  of  Loos  and  the  coun- 


250  The  Great  PusK 

try  round  after  the  victory,  and  many  of  these 
were  unburied  yet. 

A  low-lying  country,  wet  fields,  stagnant 
drains,  shell-rent  roads,  ruined  houses,  dead  men, 
mangled  horses.  To  us  soldiers  this  was  the 
only  apparent  result  of  the  battle  of  Loos,  a 
battle  in  which  we  fought  at  the  start,  a  battle 
which  was  not  yet  ended.  We  knew  nothing  of 
the  bigger  issues  of  the  fight.  We  had  helped 
to  capture  several  miles  of  trenches  and  a  few 
miles  of  country.  We  brought  our  guns  forward, 
built  new  emplacements,  to  find  that  the  enemy 
knew  his  abandoned  territory  so  well  that  he 
easily  located  the  positions  of  our  batteries.  Be- 
fore the  big  fight  our  guns  round  Les  Brebis 
and  Maroc  were  practically  immune  from  obser- 
vation; now  they  were  shelled  almost  as  soon 
as  hey  were  placed.  We  thrust  our  salient  for- 
ward like  a  duck's  bill,  and  our  trenches  were 
subject  to  enfilade  fire  and  in  some  sectors  our 
men  were  even  shelled  from  the  rear. 

Our  plan  of  attack  was  excellent,  our  prepara- 
tions vigorous  and  effective,  as  far  as  they  went. 
Our  artillery  blew  the  barbed  wire  entanglements 
of  the  first  German  trench  to  pieces,  at  the  seo 


Back  at  Loos  251 

ond  trencH  the  wire  was  practically  untouched. 

Our  regiment  entered  this  latter  trench  where 
it  runs  along  in  front  of  Loos.  We  followed  on 
the  heels  of  the  retreating  Germans.  Our  at- 
tack might  have  been  more  effective  if  the  real 
offensive  began  here,  if  fresh  troops  were  flung 
at  the  disorganised  Germans  when  the  second 
trench  was  taken.  Lens  might  easily  have  fallen 
into  our  hands. 

The  fresh  divisions  coming  up  on  Sunday  and 
Monday  had  to  cope  with  the  enemy  freshly  but 
strongly  entrenched  on  Hill  70.  The  Guards  Di- 
vision crossed  from  Maroc  in  open  order  on  the 
afternoon  of  Sunday,  the  26th,  and  was  greeted 
by  a  furious  artillery  fire  which  must  have 
worked  great  havoc  amongst  the  men.  I  saw  the 
advance  from  a  distance.  I  think  it  was  the  most 
imposing  spectacle  of  the  fight.  What  struck  me 
as  very  strange  at  the  time  was  the  Division 
crossing  the  open  when  they  might  have  got  into 
action  by  coming  along  through  the  trenches. 
On  the  level  the  men  were  under  observation  all 
the  time.  The  advance,  like  that  of  the  London 
Irish,  was  made  at  a  steady  pace. 

What  grand  courage  it  is  that  enables  men 


252  The  Great  Pusli 

to  face  the  inevitable  with  untroubled  front. 
Despite  the  assurance  given  by  the  Higher  Com- 
mand about  the  easy  task  in  front  of  us,  the 
boys  of  our  regiment,  remembering  Givenchy  and 
Richebourg,  gave  little  credence  to  the  assurance ; 
they  anticipated  a  very  strong  resistance,  in  fact 
none  of  them  hoped  to  get  beyond  the  first  Ger- 
man trench. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  why  men  are  eager 
"to  get  there,"  as  the  favourite  phrase  says,  once 
they  cross  the  parapet  of  the  assembly  trench. 
•"There,"  the  enemy's  line,  is  comparatively  safe, 
and  a  man  can  dodge  a  blow  or  return  one.  The 
open  offers  no  shelter;  between  the  lines  luck 
alone  preserves  a  man;  a  soldier  is  merely  a 
naked  babe  pitted  against  an  armed  gladiator. 
Naturally  he  wants  "to  get  there"  with  the  great- 
est possible  speed;  in  the  open  he  is  beset  with 
a  thousand  dangers,  in  the  foeman's  trench  he 
is  confronted  with  but  one  or  two. 

I  suppose  "the  desire  to  get  there,"  which  is 
so  often  on  the  lips  of  the  military  correspondent, 
is  as  often  misconstrued.  The  desire  to  get  fin- 
ished with  the  work  is  a  truer  phrase.     None 


Back  at  Loos  253 

wisH  to  go  to  a  dentist,  but  who  would  not  be 
rid  of  an  aching  tooth  ? 

The  London  Irish  advance  was  more  remark- 
able than  many  have  realized.  The  instinct  of 
self-preservation  is  the  strongest  in  created  be- 
ings, and  here  we  see  hundreds  of  men  whose 
premier  consideration  was  their  own  personal 
safety  moving  forward  to  attack  with  the  non- 
chalance of  a  church  parade.  Perhaps  the  men 
who  kicked  the  football  across  were  the  most 
nervous  in  the  affair.  Football  is  an  exciting 
pastime,  it  helped  to  take  the  mind  away  from 
the  crisis  ahead,  and  the  dread  anticipation  of 
death  was  forgotten  for  the  time  being.  But  I 
do  not  think  for  a  second  that  the  ball  was 
brought  for  that  purpose. 

Although  we  captured  miles  of  trenches,  the  at- 
tack in  several  parts  stopped  on  open  ground 
where  we  had  to  dig  ourselves  in.  This  necessi- 
tated much  labour  and  afforded  little  comfort. 
Dug-outs  there  were  none,  and  the  men  who  oc- 
cupied the  trenches  after  the  fight  had  no  shelter 
from  shell-splinters  and  shrapnel.  From  trenches 
such  as  these  we  relieved  all  who  were  left  of 
the  Munster  Fusiliers. 


254  The  Great  Push 

The  Germans  had  placed  some  entanglements 
in  front  of  their  position,  and  it  was  consid- 
ered necessary  to  examine  their  labours  and  see 
what  they  had  done.  If  we  found  that  their  wire 
entanglement  was  strong  and  well  fastened  our 
conclusions  would  be  that  the  Germans  were  not 
ready  to  strike,  that  their  time  at  the  moment 
was  devoted  to  safeguarding  themselves  from  at- 
tack. If,  on  the  other  hand,  their  wires  were 
light,  fragile  and  easily  removed,  we  might  guess 
that  an  early  offensive  on  our  lines  would  take 
place.  Lieutenant  Y.  and  two  men  went  across 
to  have  a  look  at  the  enemy's  wires;  we  busied 
ourselves  digging  a  deeper  trench ;  as  a  stretcher- 
bearer  I  had  no  particular  work  for  the  moment, 
so  I  buried  a  few  of  the  dead  who  lay  on  the 
field. 

On  our  right  was  a  road  which  crossed  our 
trench  and  that  of  the  Germans,  a  straight  road 
lined  with  shell-scarred  poplars  running  true  as 
an  arrow  into  the  profundities  of  the  unknown. 
The  French  occupied  the  trench  on  our  right, 
and  a  gallant  Porthos  (I  met  him  later)  built  a 
barricade  of  sand-bags  on  the  road,  and  sitting 
there  all  night  with  a  fixed  rifle,  he  fired  bullet 


Back  at  Loos  255 

after  bullet  down  the  highway.  His  game  was  to 
hit  cobbles  near  the  German  trenches,  from  there 
the  bullet  went  splattering  and  ricochetting,  hop- 
ping and  skipping  along  the  road  for  a  further 
five  hundred  yards,  making  a  sound  like  a  pebble 
clattering  down  the  tiles  of  a  roof.  Many  a 
Boche  coming  along  that  road  must  have  heartily 
cursed  the  energetic  Porthos. 

Suddenly  the  report  of  firearms  came  from  the 
open  in  front,  then  followed  two  yells,  loud  and 
agonising,  and  afterwards  silence.  What  had 
happened?  Curiosity  prompted  me  to  rush  into 
the  trench,  leaving  a  dead  soldier  half  buried, 
and  make  inquiries.  All  the  workers  had  ceased 
their  labour,  they  stood  on  the  fire-steps  staring 
into  the  void  in  front  of  them,  their  ears  tensely 
strained.  Something  must  have  happened  to  the 
patrol,  probably  the  officer  and  two  men  had  been 
surprised  by  the  enemy  and  killed.  .  .  . 

As  we  watched,  three  figures  suddenly  emerged 
from  the  greyness  in  front,  rushed  up  to  the  para- 
pet, and  flung  themselves  hastily  into  the  trench. 
The  listening  patrol  had  returned.  Breathlessly 
they  told  a  story. 

They  had  examined  the  enemy's  wire  and  were 


256  The  Great  Push 

on  the  way  back  when  one  of  the  men  stumbled 
into  a  shell-hole  on  the  top  of  three  Germans 
who  were  probably  asleep.  The  Boches  scram- 
bled to  their  feet  and  faced  the  intruders.  The 
officer  fired  at  one  and  killed  him  instantly,  one 
of  our  boys  ran  another  through  the  heart  with 
the  bayonet,  the  third  German  got  a  crack  on 
the  head  with  a  rifle-butt  and  collapsed,  yelling. 
Then  the  listening  patrol  rushed  hurriedly  in, 
told  their  story  and  consumed  extra  tots  of  rum 
when  the  exciting  narrative  was  finished. 

The  morning  country  was  covered  with  white 
fogs ;  Bois  Hugo,  the  wood  on  our  left,  stood  out 
an  island  in  a  sea  of  milk.  Twenty  yards  away 
from  the  trench  was  the  thick  whiteness,  the 
unknown.  Our  men  roamed  about  the  open 
picking  up  souvenirs  and  burying  dead.  Proba- 
bly in  the  mist  the  Germans  were  at  work,  too. 
.  .  .  All  was  very  quiet,  not  a  sound  broke  the 
stillness,  the  riot  of  war  was  choked,  suffocated, 
in  the  cold,  soft  fog. 

All  at  once  an  eager  breeze  broke  free  and 
swept  across  the  parapet,  driving  the  fog  away. 
In  the  space  of  five  seconds  the  open  was  bare, 


Back  at  Loos  257 

the  cloak  which  covered  it  was  swept  off.  Then 
we  saw  many  things. 

Our  boys  in  khaki  came  rushing  back  to  their 
trench,  flinging  down  all  souvenirs  in  their  haste 
to  reach  safety;  the  French  on  our  right  scam- 
pered to  their  burrows,  casting  uneasy  eyes  be- 
hind them  as  they  ran.  A  machine  gun  might 
open  and  play  havoc.  Porthos  had  a  final  shot 
down  the  road,  then  he  disappeared  and  became 
one  with  the  field. 

But  the  enemy  raced  in  as  we  did;  their  in- 
decorous haste  equalled  ours.  They  had  been 
out,  too.  One  side  retreated  from  the  other,  and 
none  showed  any  great  gallantry  in  the  affair. 
Only  when  the  field  was  clear  did  the  rifles  speak. 
Then  there  was  a  lively  ten  minutes  and  a  few 
thousand  useless  rounds  were  wasted  by  the  com- 
batants before  they  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

"A  strategic  retreat,"  said  Pryor.  "I  never 
ran  so  quickly  in  all  my  life.  I  suppose  it  is 
like  this  every  night,  men  working  between  the 
lines,  engineers  building  entanglements,  cover- 
ing parties  sleeping  out  their  watch,  listening  pa- 
trols and  souvenir  hunters  doing  their  little  bit 


258  The  Great  Push1 

in  their  own  particular  way.  It's  a  funny  way 
of  conducting  a  war." 

"It's  strange,"  I  said. 

"We  have  no  particular  hatred  for  the  men 
across  the  way,"  said  Pryor.  "My  God,  the 
trenches  tone  a  man's  temper.  When  I  was  at 
home  (Pryor  had  just  had  ten  days'  furlough)' 
our  drawing-room  bristled  with  hatred  of  some 
being  named  the  Hun.  Good  Heavens !  you  should 
hear  the  men  past  military  age  revile  the  Hun. 
If  they  were  out  here  we  couldn't  keep  them 
from  getting  over  the  top  to  have  a  smack  at! 
the  foe.  And  the  women!  If  they  were  out 
here,  they  would  just  simply  tear  the  Germans 
to  pieces.  I  believe  that  we  are  the  wrong  men, 
we  able-bodied  youths  with  even  tempers.  It's 
the  men  who  are  past  military  age  who  should 
be  out  here." 

Pryor  was  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  once  read  a  poem,  a  most  fiery  piece  of 
verse,"  he  continued;  "and  it  urged  all  men  to 
take  part  in  the  war,  get  a  gun  and  get  off  to 
Flanders  immediately.  Shame  on  those  who  did 
not  go !  The  fellow  who  wrote  that  poem  is  a  bit! 
of  a  literary  swell,  and  I  looked  up  his  name  in 


) 
Back  at  Loos  259 

Who's  Who/  and  find  that  he  is  a  year  or  two 
above  military  age.  If  I  were  a  man  of  seventy 
and  could  pick  up  fury  enough  to  write  that 
poem,  I'd  be  off  to  the  recruiting  agent  the  mo- 
ment the  last  line  was  penned,  and  I'd  tell  the 
most  damnable  lies  to  get  off  and  have  a  smack 
at  the  Hun.  But  that  literary  swell  hasn't  en- 
listed yet." 

A  pause. 

"And  never  will,"  Pryor  concluded,  placing 
a;  mess-tin  of  water  on  a  red-hot  brazier. 

Breakfast  would  be  ready  shortly. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WOUNDED 

"If  you're  lucky  you'll  get  killed  quick;  if  you're  damned 
lucky  you'll  get  'it  where  it  don't  'urt,  and  sent  back  to 
Blighty." — Bill  Teake's  Philosophy. 

SOME  min  have  all  the  damned  luck  that's 
again',"  said  Corporal  Flaherty.  "There's 
Murney,  and  he's  been  at  home  two  times 
since  he  came  out  here.  Three  months  ago  he 
was  allowed  to  go  home  and  see  his  wife  and  to 
welcome  a  new  Murney  into  the  wurl'.  Then  in 
the  Loos  do  the  other  day  he  got  a  bit  of  shrap- 
nel in  his  heel  and  now  he's  home  again.  I  don't 
seem  to  be  able  to  get  home  at  all.  I  wish  I  had 
got  Murney's  shrapnel  in  my  heel.  .  .  .  I'm  sick 
of  the  trenches ;  I  wish  the  war  was  over." 

"What  were  you  talking  to  the  Captain  about 
yesterday?"  asked  Rifleman  Barty,  and  he 
winked  knowingly. 

"What  the  devil  is  it  to  you?"  inquired  Flah- 
erty. 

260 


Wounded  261 

"It's  nothin'  at  all  to  me,"  said  Barty.  "I 
would  just  like  to  know." 

"Well,  you'll  not  know,     said  the  Corporal. 

"Then  maybe  I'll  be  allowed  to  make  a  guess," 
said  Barty.  "You'll  not  mind  me  guessin',  will 
yer?" 

"Hold  your  ugly  jaw !"  said  Flaherty,  endeav- 
ouring to  smile,  but  I  could  see  an  uneasy  look 
in  the  man's  eyes.     "Ye're  always  blatherin,.,, 

"Am  I?"  asked  Barty,  and  turned  to  us. 
"Corp'ril  Flaherty,"  he  said,  "is  goin'  home  on 
leave  to  see  his  old  woman  and  welcome  a  new 
Flaherty  into  the  world,  just  like  Murney  did 
three  months  ago." 

Flaherty  went  red  in  the  face,  then  white.  He 
fixed  a  killing  look  on  Barty  and  yelled  at  him : 
"Up  you  get  on  the  fire-step  and  keep  on  sentry 
till  I  tell  ye  ye're  free.  That'll  be  a  damned  long 
time,  me  boy!" 

"You're  a  gay  old  dog,  Flaherty,"  said  Barty, 
making  no  haste  to  obey  the  order.  "One 
wouldn't  think  that  there  was  so  much  in  you; 
isn't  that  so,  my  boys?  Papa  Flaherty  wants  to 
get  home !" 

Barty  winked  again  and  glanced  at  the  men 


262  The  Great  Push 

who  surrounded  him.  There  were  nine  of  us 
there  altogether;  sardined  in  the  bay  of  the 
trench  which  the  Munster  Fusiliers  held  a  few 
days  ago.  Nine!  Flaherty,  whom  I  knew  very 
well,  a  Dublin  man  with  a  wife  in  London,  Barty 
a  Cockney  of  Irish  descent,  the  Cherub,  a  stout 
youth  with  a  fresh  complexion,  soft  red  lips  and 
tender  blue  eyes,  a  sergeant,  a  very  good  fellow 
and  kind  to  his  men.  .  .  .  The  others  I  knew 
only  slightly,  one  of  them  a  boy  of  nineteen  or 
twenty  had  just  come  out  from  England;  this 
was  his  second  day  in  the  trenches. 

The  Germans  were  shelling  persistently  all  the 
morning,  but  missing  the  trench  every  time.  They 
were  sending  big  stuff  across,  monster  9/2  shells 
which  could  not  keep  pace  with  their  own  sound; 
we  could  hear  them  panting  in  from  the  un- 
known— three  seconds  before  they  had  crossed 
our  trench  to  burst  in  Bois  Hugo,  the  wood  at 
the  rear  of  our  line.  Big  shells  can  be  seen  in 
air,  and  look  to  us  like  beer  bottles  whirling  in 
space;  some  of  the  men  vowed  they  got  thirsty 
when  they  saw  them.  Lighter  shells  travel  more 
quickly:  we  only  become  aware  of  these  when 
they  burst;  the  boys  declare  that  these  messen- 


Wounded  263 

gers  of  destruction  have  either  got  rubber  heels 
or  stockinged  soles. 

"I  wish  they  would  stop  this  shelling,"  said 
the  Cherub  in  a  low,  patient  voice.  He  was  a 
good  boy,  he  loved  everything  noble  and  he  had 
a  generous  sympathy  for  all  his  mates.  Yes, 
and  even  for  the  men  across  the  way  who  were 
enduring  the  same  hardships  as  himself  in  an 
alien  trench. 

"You  know,  I  get  tired  of  these  trenches  some- 
times," he  said  diffidently.  "I  wish  the  war  was 
over  and  done  with." 

I  wrent  round  the  traverse  into  another  bay 
less  crowded,  sat  down  on  the  fire-step  and  be- 
gan to  write  a  letter.  I  had  barely  written  two 
words  when  a  shell  in  stockinged  soles  burst  with 
a  vicious  snarl,  then  another  came  plonk !  .  .  .  A 

i 

shower  of  splinters  came  whizzing  through  the 
air.  .  .  .  Round  the  corner  came  a  man  walking 
hurriedly,  unable  to  run  because  of  a  wound  in 
the  leg;  another  followed  with  a  lacerated  cheek, 
a  third  came  along  crawling  on  hands  and  knees 
and  sat  down  opposite  on  the  floor  of  the  trench. 
How  lucky  to  have  left  the  bay  was  my  first 


SS4  TKe  Great  PusK 

"thought,  then  I  got  to  my  feet  and  looked  at  the 
man  opposite.    It  was  Barty. 

"Where  did  you  get  hit?"  I  asked. 

"There !"  he  answered,  and  pointed  at  his  boot 
which  was  torn  at  the  toecap.  "I  was  just  go- 
ing to  look  over  the  top  when  the  shell  hit  and 
a  piece  had  gone  right  through  my  foot  near 
the  big  toe.  I  could  hear  it  breaking  through; 
it  was  like  a  dog  crunching  a  bone.  Gawd!  i£ 
doesn't  'arf  give  me  gip!" 

I  took  the  man's  boot  of!  and  saw  that  the 
splinter  of  shell  had  gone  right  through,  tear- 
ing  tendons  and  breaking  bones.  I  dressed  the 
wound. 

"There  are  others  round  there,"  an  officer,' 
coming  up,  said  to  me.  I  went  back  to  the  bay 
to  find  it  littered  with  sandbags  and  earth,  the 
parapet  had  been  blown  in.  In  the  wreckage  I 
saw  Flaherty,  dead;  the  Cherub,  dead,  and  five 
others  disfigured,  bleeding  and  lifeless.  Two 
shells  had  burst  on  the  parapet,  blew  the  struc- 
ture in  and  killed  seven  men.  Many  others  had 
been  wounded;  those  with  slight  injuries  hobbled 
away,  glad  to  get  free  from  the  place,  boys  who 
were  badly  hurt  lay  in  the  clay  and  chalk,  bleed- 


Wounded  265 

ing  and  moaning.  Several  stretcher-bearers  had 
arrived  and  were  at  work  dressing  the  wounds. 
High  velocity  shells  were  bursting  in  the  open 
field  in  front,  and  shells  of  a  higher  calibre  were 
hurling  bushes  and  branches  sky-high  from  Bois; 
Hugo. 

I  placed  Barty  on  my  back  and  carried  him 
down  the  narrow  trench.  Progress  was  difficult,' 
and  in  places  where  the  trench  had  been  three 
parts  filled  with  earth  from  bursting  shells  I  had 
to  crawl  on  all  fours  with  the  wounded  man  on 

1 

my  back.  I  had  to  move  very  carefully  round 
sharp  angles  on  the  way;  but,  despite  all  pre- 
cautions, the  wounded  foot  hit  against  the  wall 
several  times.  When  this  happened  the  soldieri 
uttered  a  yell,  then  followed  it  up  with  a  meek 
apology.    "I'm  sorry,  old  man ;  it  did  'urt  awful !" 

Several  times  we  sat  down  on  the  fire-step  and 
rested.  Once  when  we  sat,  the  Brigadier-Gen- 
eral came  along  and  stopped  in  front  of  the 
wounded  man. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  asked  the  Brigadier. 

"Not  so  bad,"  said  the  youth,  and  a  wan  smile 
flitted  across  his  face.  "It'll  get  me  'ome  to 
England,  I  think." 


2.66  TKe  Great  PusK 

"Of  course  it  will,"  said  the  officer.  "You'll 
be  back  in  blighty  in  a  day  or  two.  Have  you 
had  any  morphia?" 

"No." 

"Well,  take  two  of  these  tablets,"  said  the 
Brigadier,  taking  a  little  box  from  his  pocket  and 
emptying  a  couple  of  morphia  pills  in  his  hand. 
"Just  put  them  under  your  tongue  and  allow 
them  to  dissolve.  .  .  .  Good  luck  to  you,  my 
boy !" 

The  Brigadier  walked  away;  Barty  placed  the 
two  tablets  under  his  tongue. 

"Now  spit  them  out  again,"  I  said  to  Barty. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

"I've  got  to  carry  you  down,"  I  explained.  "I 
use  one  arm  to  steady  myself  and  the  other  to 
keep  your  wounded  leg  from  touching  the  wall 
of  the  trench.  You've  got  to  grip  my  shoulders. 
Morphia  will  cause  you  to  lose  consciousness,  and 
when  that  happens  I  can't  carry  you  any  fur- 
ther through  this  alley.  You'll  have  to  lie  here 
till  it's  dark,  when  you  can  be  taken  across  the 
open." 

Barty  spat  out  the  morphia  tablets  and  crawled 
upon  my  back  again.    Two  stretcher-bearers  fol- 


Wounded  267 

lowed  me  carrying-  a  wounded  man  on  a  blanket, 
a  most  harrying  business.  The  wounded  man 
was  bumping  against  the  floor  of  the  trench  all 
the  time,  the  stretcher-bearer  in  front  had  to 
iwalk  backwards,  the  stretcher-bearer  at  rear  was 
constantly  tripping  on  the  folds  of  the  blanket. 
A  mile  of  trench  had  to  be  traversed  before  the 
dressing-station  was  reached  and  it  took  the  party 
two  hours  to  cover  that  distance.  An  idea  of 
this  method  of  bringing  wounded  away  from  the 
firing-line  may  be  gathered  if  you,  reader,  place 
a  man  in  a  blanket  and,  aided  by  a  friend,  carry 
him  across  the  level  floor  of  your  drawing-room. 
Then,  consider  the  drawing-room  to  be  a  trench, 
so  narrow  in  many  places  that  the  man  has  to  be 
turned  on  his  side  to  get  him  through,  and  in 
other  places  so  shaky  that  the  slightest  touch  may 
cause  parados  and  parapet  to  fall  in  on  top  of  you. 
For  myself,  except  when  a  peculiar  injury  ne- 
cessitates it,  I  seldom  use  a  blanket.  I  prefer  to 
place  the  wounded  person  prone  on  my  back,  get 
a  comrade  stretcher-bearer  to  hold  his  legs  and 
thus  crawl  out  of  the  trench  with  my  burden. 
This,  though  trying  on  the  knees,  is  not  such 
a  very  difficult  feat. 


268  The  Great  Push 

"How  do  you  feel  now,  Barty?"  I  asked  my 
comrade  as  we  reached  the  door  of  the  dressing- 
station. 

"Oh,  not  so  bad,  you  know,"  he  answered. 
"Will  the  M.O.  give  me  some  morphia  when  we 
get  in?" 

"No  doubt,"  I  said. 

I  carried  him  in  and  placed  him  on  a  stretcher 
on  the  floor.  At  the  moment  the  doctor  was 
busy  with  another  case. 

"Chummy,"  said  Barty,  as  I  was  moving  away. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  coming  back  to  his  side. 

"It's  like  this,  Pat,"  said  the  wounded  boy.  "I 
owe  Corporal  Darvy  a  'arf-crown,  Tubby  Sinter; 
two  bob,  and  Jimmy  James  four  packets  of  fags 
— woodbines.  Will  you  tell  them  when  you  go 
back  that  I'll  send  out  the  money  and  fags  when 
I  go  back  to  blighty?" 

"All  right,"  I  replied.     "I'll  let  them  know." 


CHAPTER  XX 

FOR  BLIGHTY 

"The  villa  dwellers  have  become  cave-dwellers." — Dudley 
Pryor. 

THE  night  was  intensely  dark,  and  from 
the  door  of  the  dug-out  I  could  scarcely 
see  the  outline  of  the  sentry  who  stood  on 
the  banquette  fifteen  yards  away.  Standing  on 
tip-toe,  I  could  glance  over  the  parapet,  and  when 
a  star-shell  went  up  I  could  trace  the  outline  of  a 
ruined  mill  that  stood  up,  gaunt  and  forbidding, 
two  hundred  yards  away  from  our  front  line 
trench.  On  the  left  a  line  of  shrapnel-swept  trees 
stood  in  air,  leafless  and  motionless.  Now  and 
again  a  sniper's  bullet  hit  the  sandbags  with  a 
crack  like  a  whip. 

Lifeless  bodies  still  lay  in  the  trench;  the  blood 
of  the  wounded  whom  I  had  helped  to  carry  down 
to  the  dressing-station  was  still  moist  on  my  tunic 
and  trousers.  In  a  stretch  of  eight  hundred  yards 

there  was  only  one  dug-out,  a  shaky  construction, 

269 


270  pTEef  Great  Push 

cramped  and  leaky,  that  might  fall  in  at  anyj 
moment. 

"Would  it  be  wise  to  light  a  fire?"  asked  Dilly, 
my  mate,  who  was  lying  on  the  earthen  floor  of 
the  dug-out.  "I  want  a  drop  of  tea.  I  didn't 
have  a  sup  of  tea  all  day." 

"The  officers  won't  allow  us  to  light  a  fire,"  I 
said.  "But  if  we  hang  a  ground-sheet  over  the 
door  the  light  won't  get  through.  Is  there  a; 
brazier?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  there's  one  here,"  said  Dilly.  "I  was 
just  going  to  use  it  for  a  pillow,  I  feel  so  sleepy." 

He  placed  a  ground-sheet  over  the  door  while 
speaking  and  I  took  a  candle  from  my  pocket,  lit 
it  and  placed  it  in  a  little  niche  in  the  wall.  Then 
we  split  some  wood  with  a  clasp-knife,  placed  it 
on  a  brazier,  and  lit  a  fire  over  which  we  placed 
a  mess-tin  of  water. 

The  candle  flickered  fitfully,  and  dark  shadows 
lurked  in  the  corners  of  the  dug-out.  A  mouse' 
peeped  down  from  between  the  sandbags  on  the 
roof,  its  bright  little  eyes  glowing  with  mischief. 
The  ground-sheet  hanging  over  the  door  was 
caught  by  a  breeze  and  strange  ripples  played 


For  Blighty  271 

across  it.  We  could  Hear  from  outside  the  snap 
of  rifle  bullets  on  the  parapet.  .  ..  . 

"It's  very  quiet  in  here,"  said  Dilly.  "And  I 
feel  so  like  sleep.  I  hope  none  get  hit  to-night. 
I  don't  think  I'd  be  able  to  help  with  a  stretcher 
down  to  the  dressing-station  until  I  have  a  few 
hours'  sleep.  ....  How  many  wounded  did  we 
carry  out  to-day  ?    Nine  ?" 

"Nine  or  ten,"  I  said. 

"Sharney  was  badly  hit,"  Dilly  said.  "I  don't: 
think  he'll  pull  through." 

"It's  hard  to  say,"  I  remarked,  fanning  the  fire 
with  a  newspaper.  "Felan,  the  cook,  who  was 
wounded  in  the  charge  a  month  ago,  got  a  bul^ 
let  in  his  shoulder.  It  came  out  through  his 
back.  I  dressed  his  wound.  It  was  ghastly. 
The  bullet  pierced  his  lung,  and  every  time  he' 
breathed  some  of  the  air  from  the  lung  came 
out  through  his  back.  I  prophesied  that  he 
would  live  for  four  or  five  hours.  I  had  a  letter* 
from  him  the  other  day.  He's  in  a  London  hos- 
pital and  is  able  to  walk  about  again.  He  was 
reported  dead,  too,  in  the  casualty  list." 

"Some  people  pluck  up  wonderfully,"  said 
Dilly.    "Is  the  tea  ready?" 


272  The  Great  Push 

"It's  ready,"  I  said. 

We  sat  down  together,  rubbing  our  eyes,  for 
the  smoke  got  into  them,  and  opened  a  tin  of 
bully  beef.  The  beef  with  a  few  biscuits  and  a 
mess-tin  of  warm  tea  formed  an  excellent  repast. 
When  we  had  finished  eating  we  lit  our  ciga- 
rettes. 

"Have  you  got  any  iodine?"  Dilly  suddenly 
inquired. 

"None,"  I  answered.     "Have  you?" 

"I  got  my  pocket  hit  by  a  bullet  coming  up 
here,"  Dilly  answered.    "My  bottle  got  smashed." 

Iodine  is  so  necessary  when  dressing  wounds. 
Somebody  might  get  hit  during  the  night.  .  .  . 

"I'll  go  to  the  dressing-station  and  get  some," 
I  said  to  Dilly.     "You  can  have  a  sleep." 

I  put  my  coat  on  and  went  out,  clambered  up 
the  rain-sodden  parados  and  got  out  into  the 
open  where  a  shell-hole  yawned  at  every  step, 
and  where  the  dead  lay  unburied.  A  thin  mist 
lay  low,  and  solitary  trees  stood  up  from  a  sea 
of  milk,  aloof,  immobile.  The  sharp,  penetra- 
ting stench  of  wasting  flesh  filled  the  air. 

I  suddenly  came  across  two  lone  figures  dig- 
ging a  hole  in  the  ground.     I  stood  still  for  a 


For  Blighty  273 

moment  and  watched  them.  One  worked  with 
a  pick,  the  other  with  a  shovel,  and  both  men 
panted  as  they  toiled.  When  a  star-shell  went 
up  they  threw  themselves  flat  to  earth  and  rose 
to  resume  their  labours  as  the  light  died  away. 

Three  stiff  and  rigid  bundles  wrapped  in 
khaki  lay  on  the  ground  near  the  diggers,  and, 
having  dug  the  hole  deep  and  wide,  the  diggers 
turned  to  the  bundles;  tied  a  string  round  each 
in  turn,  pulled  them  forward  and  shoved  them 
into  the  hole.    Thus  were  three  soldiers  buried. 

I  stopped  for  a  moment  beside  the  grave. 

"Hard  at  work,  boys?"  I  said. 

"Getting  a  few  of  them  under,"  said  one  of 
the  diggers.  "By  God,  it  makes  one  sweat,  this 
work.  Have  you  seen  a  dog  about  at  all?"  was 
jthe  man's  sudden  inquiry. 

"No,"  I  answered.  "I've  heard  about  that 
Hog.  Is  he  not  supposed  to  be  a  German  in  dis- 
guise? 

"He's  old  Nick  in  disguise,"  said  the  digger. 
:"He  feeds  on  the  dead,  the  dirty  swine.  I  don't 
like  it  all.    Look!  there's  the  dog  again." 

Something  long,  black  and  ghostly  took  shape 
in  the  mist  ten  yards  away  and  stood  there  for 


274  TKe  Great  PusK 

a  moment  as  if  inspecting  us.  A  strange  thrill 
ran  through  my  body. 

"That's  it  again,"  said  the  nearest  digger. 
"I've  seen  it  three  times  to-night;  once  at  dusk 
down  by  Loos  graveyard  among  the  tombstones^ 
again  eating  a  dead  body,  and  now — some  say; 
it's  a  ghost." 

I  glanced  at  the  man,  then  back  again  at  the; 
spot  where  the  dog  had  been.  But  now  the  ani^ 
mal  was  gone. 

An  air  of  loneliness  pervaded  the  whole  place*] 
the  sounds  of  soft  rustling  swept  along  the 
ground :  I  could  hear  a  twig  snap,  a  man  cough,! 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  little  noises  whicK' 
merely  accentuated  the  silence,  it  suddenly  rose 
long-drawn  and  eerie,  the  howl  of  a  lonely  dog. 

"The  dirty  swine,"  said  the  digger.  "I  wisK 
somebody  shot  it." 

"No  one  could  shoot  the  animal,"  said  the 
other  worker.  "It's  not  a  dog;  it's  the  devil 
himself." 

My  way  took  me  past  Loos  church  and  church- 
yard; the  former  almost  levelled  to  the  ground* 
the  latter  delved  by  shells  and  the  bones  of  the 
dead  villagers  flung  broadcast  to  the  winds  of; 


For  Blighty  275 

heaven.  I  looked  at  the  graveyard  and  the  white 
headstones.  Here  I  saw  the  dog  again.  The 
silver  light  of  a  star-shell  shot  aslant  a  crumpled 
wall  and  enabled  me  to  see  a  long  black  figure, 
noiseless  as  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  slink  past  the 
little  stone  crosses  and  disappear.  Again  a  howl, 
lonely  and  weird,  thrilled  through  the  air. 

I  walked  down  the  main  street  of  Loos  where 
dead  mules  lay  silent  between  the  shafts  of  their 
limbers.  It  was  here  that  I  .saw  Gilhooley  die, 
Gilhooley  the  master  bomber,  Gilhooley  the  Irish- 
man. 

"Those  damned  snipers  are  in  thim  houses  up 
the  street,"  he  said,  fingering  a  bomb  lovingly. 
"But,  by  Jasus,  we'll  get  them  out  of  it."  Then 
he  was  shot.    This  happened  a  month  ago. 

In  the  darkness  the  ruined  houses  assumed 
fantastic  shapes,  the  fragment  of  a  standing  wall 
became  a  gargoyle,  a  demon,  a  monstrous  ani- 
mal. A  hunchback  leered  down  at  me  from  a 
roof  as  I  passed,  his  hump  in  air,  his  head  thrust 
forward  on  knees  that  rose  to  his  face.  Further 
along  a  block  of  masonry  became  a  gigantic 
woman  who  was  stepping  across  the  summit  of 


276  The  Great  PusH 

a  mountain,  her  shawl  drawn  over  her  head  and 
a  pitcher  on  her  shoulder. 

In  the  midst  of  the  ruin  and  desolation  of  the 
night  of  morbid  fancies,  in  the  centre  of  a  square 
lined  with  unpeopled  houses,  I  came  across  the 
Image  of  Supreme  Pain,  the  Agony  of  the  Cross. 
What  suffering  has  Loos  known?  What  tor- 
ture, what  sorrow,  what  agony?  The  crucifix 
was  well  in  keeping  with  this  scene  of  desolation. 

Old  Mac  of  the  R.A.M.C.  was  sitting  on  a 
blanket  on  the  floor  of  the  dressing-station 
when  I  entered.  Mac  is  a  fine  singer  and  a 
hearty  fellow;  he  is  a  great  friend  of  mine. 

"What  do  you  want  now?"  he  asked. 

"A  drop  of  rum,  if  you  have  any  to  spare,"  I 
answered. 

"You're  a  devil  for  your  booze,"  Mac  said, 
taking  the  cork  out  of  a  water  bottle  which  he 
often  uses  for  an  illegitimate  purpose.  "There's 
a  wee  drappie  goin',  man." 

I  drank. 

"Not  bad,  a  wee  drappie,"  said  Mac.  "Ay, 
mon !  it's  health  tae  the  navel  and  marrow  to  the 
bones." 

"Are  all  the  others  in  bed  ?"  I  asked.    Several 


For  Blighty  277 

hands  worked  at  the  dressing-station,  but  Mac 
was  the  only  one  there  now. 

"They're  having  a  wee  bit  kip  down  in  the 
cellar/'  said  Mac.  "I'll  get  down  there  if  you 
clear  out." 

"Give  me  some  iodine,  and  I'll  go,"  I  said. 

He  filled  a  bottle,  handed  it  to  me,  and  I  went 
out  again  to  the  street.  A  slight  artillery  row; 
was  in  progress  now,  our  gunners  were  shelling 
the  enemy's  trenches  and  the  enemy  were  at  work 
battering  in  our  parapets. 

A  few  high  explosives  were  bursting  at  the 
Twin  Towers  of  Loos  and  light  splinters  were 
singing  through  the  air.  Bullets  were  whizzing 
down  the  street  and  snapping  at  the  houses.  I 
lit  a  cigarette  and  smoked,  concealing  the  glow- 
ing end  under  my  curved  fingers. 

Something  suddenly  seemed  to  sting  my  wrist 
and  a  sharp  pain  shot  up  my  arm.  I  raised  my 
hand  and  saw  a  dark  liquid  dripping  down  my 
palm  on  to  my  fingers. 

"I  wonder  if  this  will  get  me  back  to  Eng- 
land," I  muttered,  and  turned  back  to  the 
dressing-station. 


278  The  Great  Push 

Mac  had  not  gone  down  to  the  cellar;  the 
water  bottle  was  still  uncorked. 

"Back  again?"  he  inquired. 

"It  looks  like  it,"  I  replied. 

"You're  bleeding,  Pat,"  he  exclaimed,  seeing 
•the  blood  on  my  hand.  "Strafed,  you  bounder, 
you're  strafed." 

He  examined  my  wound  and  dressed  it. 

"Lucky  dog,"  he  said,  handing  me  the  water 
bottle.  "You're  for  blighty,  man,  for  blighty. 
I  wish  to  God  I  was!  Is  it  raining  now?"  he 
asked. 

"It  is  just  starting  to  come  down,"  I  said. 
'"How  am  I  to  get  out  of  this?"  I  inquired. 

"There'll  be  an  ambulance  up  here  in  a  wee," 
Mac  said,  then  he  laughed.  "Suppose  it  gets 
blown  to  blazes,"  he  said. 

"It's  a  quiet  night,"  I  remarked,  but  I  was 
Seized  with  a  certain  nervousness.  "God!  it 
would  be  awkward  if  I  really  got  strafed  now, 
on  the  way  home." 

"It  often  happens,  man,"  said  Mac,  "and  we 
are  going  to  open  all  our  guns  on  the  enemy  at 
two  o'clock.  They're  mobilizing  for  an  attack, 
it's  said." 


For  Blighty  279 

r'At  two  o'clock,"  I  repeated.  "It's  a  quarter 
to  two  now.    And  it's  very  quiet." 

"It'll  not  be  quiet  in  a  minute,"  said  my  friend. 

I  had  a  vivid  impression.  In  my  mind  I  saw 
the  Germans  coming  up  to  their  trench  through 
the  darkness,  the  rain  splashing  on  their  rifles 
and  equipment,  their  forms  bent  under  the 
weight  which  they  carried.  No  doubt  they  had 
little  bundles  of  firewood  with  them  to  cook  their 
breakfasts  at  dawn.  They  were  now  thanking 
God  that  the  night  was  quiet,  that  they  could 
get  into  the  comparative  shelter  of  the  trenches 
in  safety.  Long  lines  of  men  in  grey,  keeping 
close  to  the  shelter  of  spinneys  sunk  in  shadow; 
transport  wagons  rumbling  and  jolting,  drivers 
unloading  at  the  "dumps,"  ration  parties  cross- 
ing the  open  with  burdens  of  eatables ;  men  think- 
ing of  home  and  those  they  loved  as  they  sat  in 
their  leaky  dug-outs,  scrawling  letters  by  the  light 
of  their  guttering  candles.  This  was  the  life  that 
went  on  in  and  behind  the  German  lines  in  the 
darkness  and  rain. 

Presently  hell  would  burst  open  and  a  million 
guns  would  bellow  of  hatred  and  terror.  I  sup- 
posed the  dead  on  the  fields  would  be  torn  and 


280  Jlie  Great  PusH 

i 

ripped  anew,  and  the  shuddering  quick  out  on  the 
open  where  no  discretion  could  preserve  them 
and  no  understanding-  keep  them,  would  plod 
nervously  onward,  fear  in  their  souls  and  terror 
in  their  faces. 

Our  own  men  in  the  trenches  would  hear  the 
guns  and  swear  at  the  gunners.  The  enemy- 
would  reply  by  shelling  the  trench  in  which  our 
boys  were  placed.  The  infantry  always  suffers 
when  Mars  riots.  All  our  guns  would  open  fire. 
[.  .  .  It  would  be  interesting  to  hear  them  speak. 
...  I  would  remain  here  while  the  cannonade 
was  on.  .  .  .  It  would  be  safer  and  wiser  to  go 
than  stay,  but  I  would  stay. 

"Is  there  another  ambulance  besides  the  one 
due  in  a  minute  or  two  coming  up  before  dawn, 
Mac?"  I  asked. 

"Another  at  four  o'clock,"  Mac  announced 
sleepily.  He  lay  on  the  floor  wrapped  in  his 
blanket  and  was  just  dozing  off. 

"I'm  finished  with  war  for  a  few  weeks  at 
least,"  I  muttered.  "I'm  pleased.  I  hope  I  get 
to  England.  Another  casualty  from  Loos.  The 
dead  are  lying  all  round  here ;  civilians  and  sol- 
diers.    A   dead   child  lying   in   a   trench   near 


For  Blighty  281 

HullucK.  I  suppose  somebody  has  buried  it.  I 
wonder  how  it  got  there.  .  .  .  The  line  of 
wounded  stretches  from  Lens  to  Victoria  Station 
on  this  side,  and  from  Lens  to  Berlin  on  the 
other  side.  .  .  .  How  many  thousand  dead  are 
there  in  the  fields  round  there?  .  .  .  There  will 
be  many  more,  for  the  battle  of  Loos  is  still  pro- 
ceeding. .  .  .  Who  is  going  to  benefit  by  the 
carnage,  save  the  rats  which  feed  now  as  they , 
have  never  fed  before?  .  .  .  What  has  brought 
about  this  turmoil,  this  tragedy  that  cuts  the 
heart  of  friend  and  foe  alike?  .  .  .  Why  have 
millions  of  men  come  here  from  all  corners  of 
Europe  to  hack  and  slay  one  another?  What 
mysterious  impulse  guided  them  to  this  maiming, 
murdering,  gouging,  gassing,  and  filled  them 
with  such  hatred?  Why  do  we  use  the  years 
of  peace  in  preparation  for  war?  Why  do  men 
well  over  the  military  age  hate  the  Germans  more 
than  the  younger  and  more  sober  souls  in  the 
trenches?  Who  has  profited  by  this  carnage? 
Who  will  profit?  Why  have  some  men  joined 
in  the  war  for  freedom?" 

Suddenly  I  was  overcome  with  a  fit  of  laugh- 
ter, and  old  Mac  woke  up. 


282  The  Great  Push 


tn 


'What  the  devil  are  you  kicking  up  such  a  row 
'for?"  he  grumbled. 

"Do  you  remember  B ,  the  fellow  whose 

wound  you  dressed  one  night  a  week  ago  ?  Bald 
as  a  trout,  double  chin  and  a  shrapnel  wound  in 
his  leg.    He  belonged  to  the Regiment." 

"I  remember  him,"  said  Macv 

"I  knew  him  in  civil  life,"  I  said.     "He  kept 

a  house  of  some  repute  in .    The  sons  of  the 

rich    came   there   secretly   at   night;    the    poor 

couldn't  afford  to.     Do  you  believe  that  B 

joined  the  Army  in  order  to  redress  the  wrongs 
of  violated  Belgium?" 

Mac  sat  up  on  the  floor,  his  Balaclava  helmet 
pulled  down  over  his  ears,  and  winked  at  me. 

"Ye're  drunk,  ye  bounder,  ye're  drunk,"  he 
said.  "Just  like  all  the  rest,  mon.  We'll  have 
no  teetotallers  after  the  war." 

He  lay  down  again. 

"I  know  a  man  who  was  out  here  for  nine 
months  and  he  never  tasted  drink,"  I  said. 

Mac  sat  up  again,  an  incredulous  look  on  his 
face. 

"Who  was  he?"  he  asked. 

"The  corporal  of  our  section,"  I  replied. 


For  Blighty  283 

"Well,  that's  the  first  I've  heard  o',"  said  Mac. 
"He's  dead,  isn't  he?" 

"Got  killed  in  the  charge,"  I  answered.  "I  saw 
him  coming  back  wounded,  crawling  along  with 
his  head  to  the  ground  like  a  dog  scenting  the 
trail." 

Sleep  was  heavy  in  my  eyes  and  queer 
thoughts  ran  riot  in  my  head.  "What  is  to  be 
the  end  of  this  destruction  and  decay?  That  is 
what  it  means,  this  war.  Destruction,  decay, 
degradation.  We  who  are  here  know  its  degra- 
dation; we,  the  villa  dwellers,  who  have  become 
cave  dwellers  and  make  battle  with  club  and 
knobkerry;  the  world  knows  of  the  destruction 
and  decay  of  war.  Man  will  recognise  its  fu- 
tility before  he  recognises  its  immorality.  .  .  . 
Lines  of  men  marching  up  long,  poplar-lined 
roads  to-day;  to-morrow  the  world  grows  sick 
with  their  decay.  .  .  .  They  are  now  one 
with  Him.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  He  is,  hanging  on 
the  barbed  wires.  I  shall  go  and  speak  to 
Him.  .  .  ." 

The  dawn  blushed  in  the  east  and  grew  red- 
der and  redder  like  a  curtain  of  blood — and 
from  Souchez  to  Ypres  the  poppy  fields  were  of 


284  The  Great  PusK 

the  same  red  colour,  a  plain  of  blood.  For  miles 
and  miles  the  barbed  wire  entanglements  wound 
circuitously  through  the  levels,  brilliant  with  star- 
clusters  of  dew-drops  hung  from  spike,  barb  and 
intricate  traceries  of  gossamer.  Out  in  front 
of  my  bay  gleamed  the  Pleiades  which  had 
dropped  from  heaven  during  the  night  and  clus- 
tered round  a  dark  grey  bulk  of  clothing  by  one 
of  the  entanglement  props.  I  knew  the  dark 
grey  bulk,  it  was  He;  for  days  and  nights  He 
had  hung  there,  a  huddled  heap;  the  Futility  of 
War. 

I  was  with  Him  in  a  moment  endeavouring  to 
help  Him.  In  the  dawn  He  was  not  repulsive, 
He  was  almost  beautiful,  but  His  beauty  was 
that  of  the  mirage  which  allures  to  a  more  sure 
destruction.  The  dew-drops  were  bright  on  His 
beard,  His  hair  and  His  raiment;  but  His  head 
sank  low  upon  the  wires  and  I  could  not  see 
His  face. 

A  dew-drop  disappeared  from  the  man's  beard 
as  I  watched  and  then  another.  Round  me  the 
glory  of  the  wires  faded;  the  sun,  coming  out 
warm  and  strong,  dispelled  the  illusion  of  the 
dawn ;  the  galaxy  faded,  leaving  but  the  rugged 


For  BligHty  285 

props,  the  ghastly  wires  and  the  rusty  barbs 
nakedly  showing  in  the  poppy  field. 

I  saw  now  that  He  was  repulsive,  abject,  piti- 
ful lying  there,  His  face  close  to  the  wires,  a 
thousand  bullets  in  his  head.  Unable  to  resist 
the  impulse  I  endeavoured  to  turn  His  face  up- 
ward, but  was  unable;  a  barb  had  pierced  His 
eye  and  stuck  there,  rusting  in  the  socket  from 
which  sight  was  gone.  I  turned  and  ran  away 
'from  the  thing  into  the  bay  of  the  trench.  The 
glory  of  the  dawn  had  vanished,  my  soul  no 
longer  swooned  in  the  ecstasy  of  it;  the  Pleiades 
had  risen,  sick  of  that  which  they  decorated,  the. 
glorious  disarray  of  jewelled  dew-drops  was  no 
more,  that  which  endured  the  full  light  of  day 
was  the  naked  and  torturing  contraption  of  war. 
Was  not  the  dawn  buoyant,  like  the  dawn  of 
patriotism  ?  Were  not  the  dew-decked  wires  war 
seen  from  far  off?  Was  not  He  in  wreath  of 
Pleiades  glorious  death  in  action?  But  a  ray  of 
light  more,  and  what  is  He  and  all  with  Him  but 
the  monstrous  futility  of  war.  .  .  .  Mac  tugged 
at  my  shoulder  and  I  awoke. 

"Has  the  shelling  begun?"  I  asked. 

"It's  over,  mon,"  he  said.     "It's  four  o'clock 


286  TKe  Great  PusK 

now.  You'll  be  goin*  awa'  from  here  in  a  min- 
ute or  twa." 

"And  these  wounded?"  I  asked,  looking  round. 
Groaning  and  swearing  they  lay  on  their  stretch- 
ers and  in  bloodstained  blankets,  their  ghastly 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  roof.  They  had  not  been 
in  when  I  fell  asleep. 

"The  enemy  replied  to  our  shellm',"  said  Mac 
curtly. 

"Ay,  'e  replied,"  said  a  wounded  man,  turn- 
ing on  his  stretcher.  "  'E  replied.  Gawd,  'e 
didn't  'arf  send  some  stuff  back!  It  was  quiet 
enough  before  our  blurry  artillery  started. 
They've  no  damned  consideration  for  the  pore 
infantry.  .  .  .  Thank  Gawd,  I'm  out  of  the 
whole  damn  business.  .  .  .  I'll  take  damn  good 
care  that  I  .  .  ." 

"The  ambulance  car  is  here,"  said  Mac.  "All 
who  can  walk,  get  outside." 

The  rain  was  falling  heavily  as  I  entered  the 
Red  Cross  wagon,  3008  Rifleman  P.  MacGill, 
passenger  on  the  Highway  of  Pain,  whicli 
stretched  from  Loos  to  Victoria  Station. 

THE  END 


FOUR  TIMELY  BOOKS  OF 
INTERNATIONAL  IMPORTANCE 

I  ACCUSE   O'ACCUSEl)  By  a  German.     A   Scathing 
Arraignment  of  the  German  War  Policy. 

At  this  vital  time  in  the  nation's  history  every  patriotic  American 
should  read  and  reread  this  wonderful  book  and  learn  the  absurdity 
of  the  German  excuse  that  they  wanted  a  "Place  in  the  Sun." 

Learn  how  the  German  masses  were  deluded  with  the  idea  that 
they  were  making  a  defensive  war  to  protect  the  Fatherland. 

Let  the  author  of  this  illuminating  book  again  show  the  sacrilege 
of  claiming  a  Christian  God  as  a  Teutonic  ally  and  riddle  once  more 
the  divine  right  of  kings. 

PAN-GERMANISM.     By  Roland  G.  Usher. 

The  clear,  graphic  style  gives  it  a  popular  appeal  that  sets  it  miles 
apart  from  the  ordinary  treatise,  and  for  the  reader  who  wishes  to 
get  a  rapid  focus  on  the  world  events  of  the  present,  perhaps  no 
book  written  will  be  more  interesting. 

It  is  the  only  existing  forecast  of  exactly  the  present  development 
of  events  in  Europe.  It  is,  besides,  a  brisk,  clear,  almost  primer- 
like  reduction  of  the  complex  history  of  Europe  during  the  last  forty 
years  to  a  simple,  connected  story  clear  enough  to  the  most  casual 
reader. 

THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THE  FUTURE.  By  Roland 
G.  Usher. 

A  glance  into  America's  future  by  the  man  who,  in  his  book'PAN- 
GERMANISM,  foretold  with  such  amazing  accuracy  the  coming  of 
the  present  European  events.  An  exceedingly  live  and  timely  book 
that  is  bound  to  be  read  and  discussed  widely  because  it  strikes  to 
the  heart  of  American  problems,  and  more  especially  because  it  hits 
right  and  left  at  ideas  that  have  become  deep-seated  convictions  in 
many  American  minds. 

THE  EVIDENCE  IN  THE  CASE.       By  James  M. 
Beck,  LL.D.t  Formerly  Assistant  Attorney-General 
of  the  United  States,  Author  of  the   "War  and  Hu- 
manity.'1'   With  an  Introduction  by  the  Hon.  Joseph 
H.  Choate,Late  U.  S.  Ambassador  to  Great  Britain. 
No  work  on  the  War  has  made  a  deeper  impression  throughout 
the  world  than  "The  Evidence  in  the  Case,"  a  calm,  dispassionate, 
but  forceful   discussion  of  the  moral  responsibility  for  the  present 
war  as  disclosed  by  the  diplomatic  papers.  Arnold  Bennett  says  that 
it  "is  certainly  by  far  the  most  convincing  indictme?it  of  Germany  in 
existence." 


GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


JOHN  FOX^JR'S. 

STORIES   OF  THE  KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

May  He  had  wherever  books  are  sold.      Ask  for  Grosset  and  Dunlap's  list  m 

THE  TRAIL   OF  THE    LONESOME   PINE./ 

Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. ' 


"  from  which  the 
tall  tree  that 


The  "lonesome  pine 
story  takes  its  name  was  a 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  traU 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

THE    LITTLE    SHEPHERD    OF    KINGDOM    COME 

TUustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains.^ 

A~KNIGHT  OF  THE    CUMBERLAND., 

Illustrated   by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland* 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  f  eudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris- 
tened "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "  Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 

Ask  for  complete  -free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 


Grosset  &  Dunlap,  526  West  26th  St.,  New  York 


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